


Break the Lock

by Ruby_Wednesday



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Issues, Heist, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruby_Wednesday/pseuds/Ruby_Wednesday
Summary: It should have been simple – the hold-up, heist, armed robbery, whatever you want to call it. Damen called it working for the family business. He was ready to storm into the casino and take a chunk of cash back from the Veretians. They'd taken enough from his side.He was ready, waiting, and then someone else arrived into the alleyway with bright blue eyes the only things visible through the black mask.  After that, it wasn't simple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW : blood, violence, gun violence, threats, no deaths or glamorization of gun violence  
> Not beta'd.

There might be people who run through a mental checklist before a job like this, but Damen wasn’t one of them. He knew what he was doing. The building specs, the blind corners, the techniques, the fear, the adrenaline that made muscle memory take over, the prep, the contingency plans, the escape, the thrill of the chase. He even knew the name of the security guard’s kids, in case he needed to pull that one out of the bad along with his weapon. He knew every-fucking-thing about a hold-up and he was ready to put into action at the Regency Resort Hotel and Casino.

The best part was : he didn’t even feel bad about it. He was only taking back what was rightfully his. The Veretian cartel, what was left of the family, had taken plenty from his people. Technically, there was a truce between both sides. But that didn't stop bar fights and street brawls and animosity spilling over into more dangerous acts of aggression on both sides. Just last week, the Akielons lost a shipment of knock off bags to the Veretians. A month ago, Kastor had successfully taken over one of Vere's most profitable clubs. Five years ago, when Akielos took a large bundle of territory back and the Veretians had...suffered.

 

A glance at his watch told him he had two more minutes before showtime. Traffic had been light. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. The plan had been made with the assumption Damen would be in a fast but unremarkable car, with Nikandros at the wheel. Plans could change. He used a motorcycle instead, came alone, and decided it was better to wait in the camera-free alleyway than linger where he might be spotted or remembered. He could do all the right things to go undetected except shrink himself to a smaller size. The cameras were down here. The guards were on shift change. A fire drill was planned. It was sunrise and the casino had been hopping all night after the big fight in the attached arena the evening before. Govart, the favourite, had lost which Damen assumed meant the coffers were full and more fools tried to win back their lost cash.

Two minutes. He could wait two minutes.

He could do this with his eyes closed. Hadn’t he told Kastor as much when he was unsure who to send? _It should be me,_ Damen had said, even though he hadn’t done a job like this in three years. These days, he was more of an operations man. But their father’s illness put everyone under strain. _I’ll make you proud_ , Damen had told his father, before handing him the oxegyn mask. Theomdedes would be pleased if Damen managed to bring back a substantial haul. After…after the disaster of Damen’s last clash in the field with their rivals, money hadn’t been their priority. That was a mistake. What was the point in any of this but money? _It’s the right thing,_ Kastor had said, and pulled Damen in for an uncharacteristic hug. Jokaste’s eyes had widened at the embrace. Hers had been all bones. _Get in, get out_ , she had said. That was their mantra. _Damen, get in and get out._

One minute.

He pushed all that aside. He couldn't think about his father or his brother, unless in the abstract sense of living up to his family name.

Nothing good came from letting personal feeling in during work.

One minute.

He steeled himself. Prepared to dismount. Swallowed into his dry throat. Took off the helmet. Pulled down his balaclava. Three steps to the back door. Three long steps.

He hadn’t taken one step when the orange van careened down the narrow alleyway. Bright orange, like the Delpha City Council vans. Shouldn’t be an issue. He had the bike. He was covered. There were no planned maintenance works. It was fine.

Except the van came to a smooth stop right beside him and a man emerged from the back, also dressed in black from head to toe. His face was covered, like Damen’s, but a pair of piercing blue eyes could be seen through the slits, unlike Damen. His were covered completely.

This was not fine.

There was a long moment of nothing but looking while Damen through several possibilities in his head. There were options that he would not take. Because this was The Regency and his father needed this. His hand itched for the feel of carved steel, but that wasn’t an option either. Not when Damen could see the outline of a gun tucked into the man’s slim black jeans.

“Well,” said the stranger. “We have thirty seconds and I assume we are here for the same thing. Let’s do this.”

“What?” Damen couldn’t go home empty-handed. He couldn’t screw up his first job in years; his first dealings with the Veretians since the disaster.

“Get in. Rob the cash office. Get the fuck out of dodge,” he replied, with the kind of light tone one might use about the weather. “Get in my way and I kill you, sweetheart.”

Under the ski-mask, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“Not if I kill you first,” he said. “Sweetheart.”

 

~*~

 

 

There might be people who would back off with the thoughts that this was a trap or bad idea, but Damen wasn’t one of them. He’d had plenty of bad ideas in his life (hello, Jokaste) and he was still thriving. You don’t grow up as heir to the top crime family in the country without winding up in a few traps over the years. He’d never had a fight he had not won. He’d never gotten stuck in a snare yet.

The Regency had plenty of rivals.

It wasn’t unthinkable that someone else had the same idea at the same time. Maybe Kastor’s source had sold the same information to someone else. Not Patras, they would know. Kempt or Vask, perhaps? Even some rogues. Either way, Damen was too far gone to turn around now.

He was the one who opened the heavy fire door. He was also the one who couldn’t resist making a little ‘after you’ gesture to let Blue Eyes in first.

After that, the Game was on. There was a state of mind you went into during a job like this that Damen could never quite explain. It required too much brain power to be called autopilot. It was too distant to be called laser-focus. You acted. You thought about your actions. But it wasn’t any way you thought or acted in real life.

Once, drunk, he had discussed it one of his father’s men - an experienced soldier, a war vet — and even though Damen had humility enough to know what he did and what they did was not the same. Well, it was a little bit the same at the time.

Now, the other man went first, moving with a feline ease that Damen with all his strength and skill could never replicate. The utility corridor was empty. He had to trust that the cameras were disabled as arranged. They had a brief window to do this. _Get in. Get out_. Damen wasn’t used to following and it was somewhat of a shock to find himself going at someone else’s pace. He heard someone around the next corner, unwanted but not exactly unexpected, and he heard them first judging by the lack of reaction in Blue Eyes. Damen signaled with one hand and the other man stopped. He wanted to say _let me_ but didn’t get the chance. The problem of the unsuspecting was neatly taken care of, bloodlessly, and not by Damen. Though he was the one who shoved the poor bugger into a boiler room and hoped he didn’t have anywhere he needed to be in a hurry.

There was no conversation but he had the sense of…approval. That this was working. There was only a flight of stairs and two sets of doors in their way now. Nothing really. But the further you went in the harder it was to get out. All communication was unspoken. Damen took the stairs two at a time. Blue Eyes covered him, then he was the one who went through the doors first. There could be no leaders or followers for the next part. _Get in. Get out._

Damen kicked in the door of the cash office. No-one could doubt his purpose.

“Be quick,” was the mutter in his ear. There were three shocked cashiers, frozen about the room. There was a gun pointed at them, courtesy of Blue Eyes.

“Right,” Damen said, voice loud but calm. It was important to be calm. Treat it like work. “In case you can’t tell, this is a hold-up.” He shucked his backpack, drawing out his weapon of choice — the humble machete- and tossed it (the bag not the machete) towards the nearest cashier. “Cash. Now. All of it.”

“Half of it,” Blue Eyes amended, slinking menacingly closer to the shaking young man nearest the safe. “In each bag.” Of course he had a duffel of his own. “Do it now! No alarms. No dye packs.”

“Hands where I can see them,” Damen shouted. Treat them like your enemies. They'd do the same to you. Pretend you’re doing the right thing. Cops and Robbers but in reverse. “Or you lose a hand, Kyrina.” Knowing names helped, in this kind of thing. So did the training most people people who dealt in cash received. Golden Rule : Hand it fucking over. Money was never worth dying over. Unless you were people like them. Two bags. Three cashiers. It was the most effective course of action to press his weapon against the neck of the third person.

“Do what he says. For the love of God.”

“I am, Aimeric,” snapped Kyrina, who was actually very pretty and worked her way up from the floor. She used to haul in the money and now she counted it. Knowing Jokaste, Damen assumed she was their inside man. It was rather a lot of cash and the cashiers were scared. They weren’t moving fast enough. Not when Blue Eyes kicked over several chairs. Not even when the expected alarm started going off.

“That’s enough. Go! Put one bag inside the other.” Blue Eyes was panicking. Great. How did Damen get saddled with an amateur?

“Separately!” Damen insisted. “It’s a fire drill. Relax.” Quietly, to his comrade who was already grabbing his half-empty hold-all.

“That is not the fire alarm. They know. They know. This was a fucking set-up.”

No more chances. Damen grabbed his bag . He made the two cashiers who had transferred the money get under the desk, once their hands and  
feet were hastily secured. He didn’t even have time to feel bad about that, or about keeping the one called Aimeric hostage, as they fled.

“You’re screwed,” said the curly-haired, pretty young boy. He probably raked in his fair share of cash, too. Fear changed people. It had made cool Blue Eyes edgy. It made this Aimeric brave. “You’ll never —”

“Shut up.” Damen and the other man spoke at the same time, fleeing down the steps, skipping half of them, then pounding back down the utility hallway. It was like they were running in the direction of the alarm. Armed security guards could come pouring down towards them. Anyone could be on the other side of the door.

“Maybe you’ll share a cell…”

Blue Eyes shut him up with the butt of his gun.

“We may need him to get out.”

Damen bore Aimeric’s unconscious weight. “What the fuck?”

“I trust you can manage.”

Damen could manage to move while holding Aimeric but not as fast as before. But a hostage could be the difference in getting out alive or at all, so he persevered.

They reached the door.

It was locked.

Blue Eyes swore. 

“Did you set me up?” They spoke at the same time again. These doors were too thick for Damen to break through.

“Think,” Blue Eyes said to himself. His eyes were wild.

“Lockdown?” Damen wondered.

“Not unless…” The alarm was getting louder. Footsteps thundering closer above their heads. Venues like this had armies of guards. Blue Eyes lunged and Damen was shocked that he did not defend himself. Even though his arms were full of Aimeric. But he was not the target. Aimeric had a badge clipped to his belt and a scan was all it took to open the door.

“I knew I was right to bring him.” Damen was not above gloating.

“He’s not an invited guest. And..” No need to finish that. The first guard had emerged into the hall. More behind. They would have definitely alerted the police. Damen didn’t let chivalry hold him back. He went through the door, still with Aimeric, and was about to haul the other man out too. No need. He had smashed the card reader and was hot on Damen’s heels. Hopefully that would keep them inside. For now. Damen dropped Aimeric in front of the door just in case.

Good news : the alleyway was empty.

He hopped on his bike. He shouldn’t have given Blue Eyes a second thought. Except the alley was empty. The orange van was gone.

“Get on!” As he put on his helmet. He had taken both that morning, to keep up the pretense, and tossed the second one to the slightly dazed other man.

Damen was still surprised when he felt the added weight hit the seat; the press of arms around his waist. There was no time for that. He roared the bike out of there. The engine was nearly as loud as his the throb of his pulse in his ears. He wasn’t sure if he could still hear the alarms or if was memory. None of that mattered. His objective was to put as much distance between himself and The Regency. He bombed through the traffic, just at the edge of the speed limit, until he felt a pinch and he couldn’t hear what was being said but he understood it. Slow Down. Get out.

There were sirens somewhere and he was drawing too much attention.

He dropped some speed, thankful for the fact this wasn’t the other man’s first time riding pillion. Blue Eyes better be thankful Damen took this chance. He could have left him to take the rap. Most people would, especially in their circles. Damen knew where he was going. He had a plan. But the sirens were getting closer and he took a diversion through a side-street. His intended route was South, and home, but Blue Eyes was signaling differently. Damen didn’t trust him. But the sirens were everywhere now and he had to assume someone saw them leave. In his mirrors, he caught glimpses of blue lights but none of them seemed to catch sight of him.

He went West, following silent commands, and the next look back revealed wailing police cars behind him.

This wasn’t the time to be cautious. He pushed the bike to its limits, weaving through cars and city buses; breaking the speed limit and several traffic laws. He blew through a red light. He had to slow slightly in a residential area, to avoid ploughing into a woman in a mobility scooter, and somehow his passenger used that opportunity to knock a bunch of traffic cones into the road like dominoes. The police kept coming, not matter how many alleys Damen’s cut through. The sirens didn’t dissipate.

Instinct had taken over. The only objective was to get away. _Get out._ Then the passenger was urging him forward and there, like a beacon, behind a set of roadworks was the familiar orange van. Damen thought it must be a genuine City Council van. That made the most sense. But he needed hope, not practicalities, and he screeched to a stop behind a massive cement mixer. The truck promptly blocked the road and Damen had never been so glad to see an idiotic construction worker. Relief, or something like it, soared through him and he felt the same pour from the other passenger.

“Get in,” he shouted. Damen thought he must have misheard him. This was meant to be where they parted ways. But the sirens were still coming, loud, louder than the ambling cement truck. A set up, he had said. But if Damen continued on the bike, he would be the only one pursued. Going against his training, he and the other man loaded the bike into the back of the orange van, and then collapsed panting on the metal floor. He pulled off his helmet as the van accelerated. The other man did the same. “Jesus Christ, Jord. What happened to waiting in the alley? My instructions were clear.”

The driver, Jord, glanced backwards. He didn’t react to the using of his name, unprofessional as that may be. Nor did he react to the scathing tone.

“Aw, boss,” he said. “I thought you’d be pleased that I improvised.”

“Shut up. Drive the van. Status update, now.”

“Which is it?” Damen said. “Do you want a status update or silence?”

“You, shut up. Jord ,speak.”

“From Orlant,” Jord said. “Alarm raised early. Security mobilised. More on shift than planned, considering scale of last night’s event. From Vannes : consistent use of plurals, like expected. From Lazar : you better give him a job if the Council fire him.”

“I’ve already given him a job.”

Damen had enough of listening. He sat forward, and the instant he did, the other man’s body language changed. Right. Neither of them trusted each other. Even if they had gotten this far.

“What’s the plan?” he said.

“None of your business.”

“I could have left you to rot,” Damen said.

“Likewise. They could have, you know, at the roadworks.”

“Why didn’t you?” It was unsettling, to speak without any idea of facial movements. But he wasn’t going to be the first to take off his mask.

“Certainly not out of kindness. I want to know who sent you.”

“I sent myself.”

“Then who used you to —”

“Boss,” Jord interrupted. “Company.”

Damen, on his knees, peered through the darkened glass at the back of the van. There was an entire fleet of cars behind them. They did not belong to the police. They were not his people either.

“Did you scoop someone?” he asked.

“Yes, you. Oh, you mean the casino? Once they get close enough you’ll see the Regency red logos on the side. Assuming they sent official staff. Who knows who they contract out to these days?”

“Vask,” Damen said. “They’ve got the Vask racket.”

“Hmmm.”

“Give me your gun.”

“No way.”

“I can stop them.”

“You can’t shoot them all.”

“I just need to stop them.”

There was a silence, during which Damen was aware of the driver watching his boss more than the road.

“Jord,” said Blue Eyes, and the driver was passing Damen a weapon. Nothing fancy. But serviceable. Powerful. The shape was familiar to his gloved hand. You don’t forget what it’s like to hold a gun and know it can mean the difference between life or death. Damen wasn’t stupid. He still did target practise. Sometimes in a paid range. Sometimes he and Nik blasted beer bottles at the edge of the compound. It was important to keep your skills sharp.

To him, it was important not to let it overcome him. 

It had been five years since he’d last fired a gun in the field.

“Just like riding a bike,” he muttered, to himself.

“Oh Christ. If you don’t know what you’re doing…”

“I know what I’m doing.” Damen judged the best way to do it, and dropped onto his belly. Better to keep low. Steady. “Stay back,” he said, and opened the door of the van which was going a hundred miles an hour down an empty road. There were four cars in pursuit and since they had no sirens he could assume it was Regency men. They had contracted out to Vask but they had plenty of their own muscle on board too. People who would do the very same for Damen if one of his premises had been the target.

There was no room for regret here.

They all knew what they were signing up for.

“No!” The other man made a lunge for him, at the same time as Jord swerved, and he was flung back against the side of the van. The bike followed and made an almighty crash. At least Jord had some sense.

Damen had to do this.

“It’s not to kill,” he said.

“It never is,” said the bitter voice. But he didn’t move again.

Damen pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. They returned fire at the first shot, naturally enough, but that wasn’t something to think of now. He was down. He had to assume the driver and the boss had the sense to stay down. He had to trust his ability, even as the bullets whizzed past, the speed of them burning his skin, and believe he would succeed. They could keep going. The other cars would stop. Methodically, he fired off his round. The round was gone. Each bullet made contact with where he wanted - the SUV tyres. The cars careened, swerved, smoked. There was broken glass and two ended up in the verge. There might be injuries. The last car in the morbid parade flipped as it tried to avoid one of the blown out predecessors.

But they were stopped. Another road was blocked.

Damen was nothing but adrenaline as he rolled onto his back.

“We good?” he managed to mumble, as Blue Eyes climbed over him to pull the door closed. The van was still running smoothly, as far as Damen could tell. It had a couple of bullet holes here and there. He could tell by the long streams of sunlight piercing the darkness.

“Good? You just shot out the entire Regency fleet,” Jord said, with no small amount of admiration in his voice.

“That couldn’t be their whole fleet.” Damen had dropped the gun. “You can have that back. It’s empty now.” Exhaustion was setting in but he had to raise his head. His shoulder was still hot, like maybe he had hurt it while hauling the bike into the van or something.

There was a hole in his leather jacket.

“Great,” said Blue Eyes. “You’re bleeding.”

“No…” But he could feel the pain now the adrenaline was wearing off. Getting shot left behind a particular kind of burning. He could feel the wet flow of blood, too, and the panic-flash of the other times this had happened.

“Jord. We need to transfer and burn. Have Pashcal waiting. You need to apply pressure. Here, like this.” He shed his own soft sweater to soak up the blood. “Don't move, you idiot.”

“I’ve been shot before,” Damen said.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Three minutes out,” Jord called.

“Can you last three minutes?”

There might have been people who’d say the right thing here (it’s a flesh wound. I’ve had worse. Don’t worry about it) but Damen wasn’t one of them.

“I’ve never had any complaints yet,” he said. The other man snorted. Damen could have just breathed through the pain and decided his next move. You couldn’t just stay still, even if you wanted to remember the tantalising flash of taut skin he’d seen when the sweater currently stemming his blood flow had been pulled off. He pushed up one elbow. “I need a burner phone. Just one call.”

“In the next van.”

“I just…Ow.” He lay back down.

“Nearly there. Once you get looked at, we’ll get you a phone.”

That didn’t sound promising at all. “I have my own people.”

“You clearly have a mole. And I won’t take any risks with — my security. We’re here. Can you walk?”

“Yes.” Through gritted teeth. Damen was still wearing the backpack. One shoulder only, like a kid trying to be cool. The bullet had hit the other shoulder. Strap. Leather. He wondered if that made a difference. He wasn’t sure of the blood situation but his head was foggy as the van pulled to a stop.

“I can take —”

“No chance.” A growl. He had no idea what was on the other side of the door. Plenty of people in their line of work would shoot him in the head and take the money. This man seemed different. But you never knew, really, unless you were dealing with your own.

Upright, the pain was worse.

It darted upwards, like it was coming through the soles of his feet, and Damen let out some choice swear words. They earned him a chuckle and the offer of a shoulder to lean on as he put his boots on the ground. The sky was so bright now. He couldn’t hear anymore sirens. Gunshots were a distant memory.

Another van was waiting. They were behind some abandoned warehouse. He was thinking, if they hadn’t been chased he could go on the bike. If he hadn’t been shot, he could go on the bike. He was hoping the next person he met had some good drugs because this pain was getting seriously annoying.

“Helmets?” Jord asked.

“Just mine,” Damen said. He wasn't willing to part with it. 

“Burn everything else.”

Goodbye motorcycle. Goodbye orange van.

Two men were rushing over. One with a face like a rockslide. Another who looked too timid to be here.

“Help me move him, Orlant. Jord, make sure there’s no blood left here. Paschal, have you the kit?” The voice was muffled. Damen felt like he was underwater. He thought about how when he was a kid, he loved to dunk his whole head under the bathwater. It was game until…until Kastor got too rambunctious in the pool one day. Damen was kid then, too, but he thought he wasn’t. Kastor definitely was not.

It was Damen’s long-formed habit to pay attention to his surroundings. He knew he should be looking for something to identify their location. He should be aware of his condition. But that was getting difficult. He made himself walk, at the mercy of strangers. He glanced at the van, expecting something completely generic.

He saw the logo first, a starburst, and the familiar name of Vere there too.

“No.” The word came out a gasp and with it a rising panic. Damen pressed his heels into the dirt. He didn’t want to go with them. “No,” he said.  
“I’m—”

“He’s stubborn,” said Blue Eyes and then Damen was in the van. “Paschal, I leave him in your capable hands.” Paschal was evidently the doctor who was currently removing Damen’s jacket with impersonal efficiency. Doctors weren’t meant to harm you. But what kind of doctor worked for Vere?

 _This is a set up._ Had Blue Eyes, who probably had the name Damen didn’t want to hear, been simply telling him the truth then?

“Take off the mask,” the doctor said. He’d cut away all the clothing on Damen’s upper body now. Including the strap of the rucksack he so carefully kept. That had been pointless.

“No.” Another gasp. Maybe he could keep up the impression he was but a henchman and not Theomedes’ son. There might be a way out of this. He just had to preserve some anonymity until he could get in touch with Nik or Kastor. “Really, I’m fine. It’s just a flesh wound. Went right through. I’ve been shot before.”

“You said that already,” said Blue Eyes.

“Twice,” said Damen.

“Do you really think that makes a difference?”

“Sir, you are safe here. I promise. I need to see your face.”

“No.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“No. I-” The pain, the blood-loss, was making everything worse. Damen didn’t panic, normally. He didn’t ever need to argue.

From the Veretian man, who had robbed his own people’s money with him, came an annoyed sound like a snort. “Look,” he said, rising elegantly in the back of a moving van. “We’re very much in the same boat here, sweetheart. My identity is just as precious to me as yours is to you. So if it will help the good doctor here do his work, let’s even the playing field.”

It happened in slow motion, the reveal. First the angular jaw, the full mouth, the proud nose, the eyes which Damen knew, and then the shock of bright blond hair. He wasn’t just any Veretian. He was Laurent, only surviving son and heir to all being Veretian entailed.

Damen knew that because he was the one who killed his brother.

“Wait,” he said. “I want —”

What Damen wanted was for none of this to have happened. There might have been people who could say the right thing but he wasn’t one of them. Elegant, capable hands reached under his head and inelegantly yanked off his mask. Without barriers, or warning, Laurent’s reaction was stamped all over his face. Shock. Disbelief. Rearing back like he wanted to be as far away from Damen as possible in the back of a medium-sized van. Or as if he had been pushed. As quickly as this human, young, part of him revealed itself it shuttered again.

Damen didn’t know what to say. There was no way to make this right.

“There’s morphine in my bag,” Paschal was saying. “Pass it please.”

“No,” said Damen. “I don’t —”

“You’ve been shot. I need to go digging to make sure there’s no shrapnel.”

Laurent fixed a cool glare on the doctor. “No morphine,” he said. “A little pain won’t do this one any harm.”

“But —”

Laurent was leaning over Damen now, close as lovers, except for the ice in his eyes. Whatever bond they had formed during the chase was over. Damen had killed his brother. Their families were natural enemies going back generations. There could be nothing but hate between them.

He ran a gloved finger down the length of Damen’s cheek.

Damen had never felt more vulnerable.

“Open up,” Laurent said.

Like Damen had a choice. He knew better than to hope for pain killers. Laurent shoved a gag into Damen’s mouth.

“Be quick, Paschal,” Laurent said. “As much as I relish his suffering, I really do not want to hear Damianos screaming.”

Damen didn’t scream. He didn’t do it when Auguste had shot him all those years ago and he didn’t do it when the Vere doctor dug into his open wound in the back of a moving laundry van.

His father had taught him better than that.

Then again, his father wasn’t here.

No-one else had to know that he passed the fuck out.

~*~

 

Damen came to with all his limbs intact and no new bullet wounds. He counted that as a victory.

Life comes at you fast etc etc.

That morning, he wouldn’t have counted anything less than a few hundred thousand in cash as a success. But he was alive. Laurent didn’t kill him on sight, which meant he had some vested interest in keeping Damen alive. If nothing else, they had that much in common.

Damen was quite fond of living, too.

He was groggy but that was to be expected. It had been a tiring morning. There was a bullet hole in his shoulder. And judging by the taste in his mouth, the kindly doctor had ignored his boss’s orders to keep Damen drug free. Maybe he could be kind enough as to get Damen out of here.

Maybe Damen could employ some of his schoolboy tricks and fake a fever. Except, he couldn't pull that off as a child so the odds were not in his favour. Might be fun to try though...Shit, he'd definitely gotten some good drugs. He could feel his lips pull up into a smile. 

The drugs at least kept the ache at bay enough for Damen to assess his situation. Good news : he was alive and mostly unharmed. Bad news : he wasn’t going anywhere without assistance. His legs were tied to the base of an office chair. One arm was cuffed to a pipe behind him. Good news : the pipe was cold. The wrist that was secured was not attached to his bandaged arm. His face was still uncovered. He could see one visible exit in this industrial room. He could hear rhythmic thumping and whooshing through the walls. Right. They’d bundled him into a dry-cleaning van.

Someone with a healthy sense of irony had set up this laundry as a front for the less legitimate side of Vere’s business. It looked like the upstart kid had the run of the place.

Damen knew better than to think he was truly alone. A red light blinked in the corner. He hadn’t long regained consciousness when the door heaved open and in walked Jord, the driver. He had a paper cup of water and a straw which he offered to Damen.

“Thanks,” Damen croaked, after gulping it down. His mouth didn’t taste any better but his throat wasn’t as dry. Still, he hated how earnest he sounded. “Don’t suppose you have a mint for me too? Or a toothbrush?”

Jord’s eyes were dark. “I have nothing for you but contempt,” he said. “Laurent wants to keep you alive for now, so I obey his orders. Believe me, I would have left a murderer like you bleeding on the side of the road.”

Damen couldn’t hold in the laughter. Definitely the drugs had loosened his inhibitions. “A moral gangster,” he said. “There’s something you don’t see every day.” Except for when Damen looked in the mirror, of course.

He was rewarded for that comment with a punch in the side of the head, which said an awful lot about this place. Immature and dangerous. Cruel, considering Damen had the mother of all headaches before that.

“I know what I am. Which is probably more than can be said for you,” Jord spat out.

“You can’t even hit like man.”

“Tell me,” Jord said. “What did he promise you to fuck over his nephew? You’ll never see it you know. Might not see daylight again, come to think of it.”

“Enough.” Laurent was there, too. Damen couldn’t guess how long he had been there. “Jord, check in with the scanners. I want to talk to this one alone.” All without moving from his casual position across the room. He had one foot raised, knee bent, shiny leather show resting against a drum of laundry detergent large enough to conceal a body. Damen had to think about these things.

“If you wanted to talk to me alone,” Damen replied, once Jord was far enough not to hit him again. “You could have just asked nicely. The cuffs. The shootout. It really wasn’t necessary.”

“If I could avoid breathing the same air space as you, I would. Believe me, this is not a pleasure to me.”

“You took pleasure in me being shot. Did you arrange it?”

“No. If I did they would have got your tiny brain. The target is small but my men are good,” Laurent replied. “I’ve always planned on eliminating you.” He walked around the clinical storage room, trailing one elegant finger alone a metal shelf. “I’ve had far more creative fantasies than what occurred in which you bled out in front of me. As my brother did in front of you. Oh, don’t give me those sad eyes. You and I both know the truth of this. We are what we are.”

“So this is inevitable?” Damen couldn’t agree with that. He was more than his family name. More than the reckless young man he had been rushing into the fray when Vere had opened fire on them.

“Death is inevitable for us all. Men are not gods, no matter how many others they kill or how many zeroes they have in the bank.” Laurent stood directly in front of Damen now. To look at his neat hair and crisp clothes, you’d never guess how his morning had gone. “You do have some choice in what happens next.”

“Oh, thanks so much,” said Damen. “Electric chair or lethal injection?”

“Tell me my uncle’s terms, and I’ll be gentle.”

“Good thing I can handle rough, then,” Damen said. “Because I haven’t a damn clue what your uncle’s terms are or what they have to do with me. The last time I laid eyes on that man is when he surrendered to my father five years ago.”

“Lies won’t get you anywhere.”

“I’m not —”

“What would convince you? Hmmm.” Laurent circled him. Like a shark. “How about one of men visit the lovely Jokaste? I am sure she’s just an innocent, naive young girl with no idea where the money’s been coming from.”

“You’re so wrong.”

“Ah, she does know. That makes sense. You are not entirely stupid, so I imagine you like a challenge. I am sure she’s no stranger to the surgeon’s knife but I am not sure she’ll ever recover from a slash across those high cheekbones.”

“She’s with Kastor.”

“Even better. A brother for a brother.”

“She’s Kastor’s…she picked him,” Damen said. “You won’t get near here. He’s paranoid like that. Has her watched constantly.”

“You’re telling the truth.”

“Yes.”

“Then why can’t you tell the truth about my uncle?”

“I am,” Damen ground out, frustrated. “You’re in the dark? So am I. You say this was a set up? Then it was for me too. Best guess - an ambitious informer hedged his bets by telling both sides. None of this was my doing. If I had known —” He couldn’t say he wouldn’t do a job in Veretian territory. The whole point was to get the money back they were owed. And maybe to show the Veretians not to mess with them. But he wouldn’t step on the young heir’s toes. “It would have been a stupid risk to pull something knowing you would be there. I never would have agreed. I’m not entirely stupid, after all.”

“That’s a nice idea. Fairness. Justice. Do you rescue the princess in the tower at the end?”

“You can’t see the woods for the trees, pal,” Damen said. “Someone else pulled this shit. If you could only get past your stupid prejudice we would —”

Laurent kicked his chair over. It hurt, naturally. His shoulder still ached and now the other did too from how the cuff had him suspended. He just about avoided whacking his head. And that was before he considered the blow to his pride. A position like this was vulnerable and Damen did not like. He liked it less when Laurent loomed over him, eyes blazing the middle of a flame.

“You killed my brother!”

Damen braced himself for further onslaught. It did not come. Quick as he had lashed out, Laurent left. His man Orlant was the one who came in and righted Damen’s chair. He gave him more water and painkillers, which Damen refused. He didn’t know what they were. He needed to be lucid.

“How can you work for someone like that?” Damen asked. He’d gotten the measure of Laurent’s staff — solid, reliable. It was just work to them, he thought.

“I’d clean his shoes before I’d work for Akielos,” Orlant replied.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know where I’d be if I didn't work for him. The gutter, maybe, with a cheap bottle of booze.”

Damen was left alone then, with just his thoughts. He drifted. Consciousness came and went and with it were the dreams. He blamed the drugs and the whatever his body was doing to cope with the stress of being shot for that. There might be people who dreamed because their minds were full of hurtful thoughts but Damen wasn't one of them. It was drugs that made him call out for his father and sweat buckets because he was chasing something invisible through his subconscious. Sometimes the thing looked like his family. Sometimes he was the one being chased. Once, a golden blond head disappeared around a misty corner and when Damen followed he crashed into a river of blood. Whatever. Dreams weren't meant to make sense.

There were no windows, no clocks; nothing to help him gauge the time. By now, his family would know something had gone wrong. His father was in no position to help. Nik might, if Kastor gave him the information. But Damen wasn’t clinging onto the idea of being rescued. He had to do this for himself. The simplest solution was to get Laurent to see he was innocent of whatever scheme he had affixed to him. Laurent had every reason to hate him. He had every right to kill him, if you wanted to be old-fashioned about it.

An eye for an eye. Damen had killed his brother.

But Laurent had been shocked to see it was Damen in the back of that van. Damen had been living relatively near Vere’s territory all his life and he did not live quietly. Laurent had never tried to seek revenge. Today, Damen had been shot and if Laurent was to be believed, set up while doing a job. Why not add a bit more recklessness into the mix? How far did anyone get in life without risk?

“Hey!” He started to shout. “Tell him I want to talk to him.”

His assumption that someone would be outside the door was correct. First, whoever it was told him to shut up. Then they threatened to gag him.

“Your boss will want to know this,” Damen said, to the new face who looked in the door. He was briefly proud of how composed he sounded, then he remembered he should save his strength for the main event. Laurent would require a lot more mental durability than his henchman.

“Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean he will jump to your attention. We’re not fond of murderous scumbags like you around here.”

“Right. You just pimp out boys and girls instead. Get them hooked on whatever shit you get cheap and ruin their lives. I get it. Such a huge difference. It's more cruel than killing. We knew what we were getting into.”

“Cruel?”

“Don’t think I don’t know what goes on over at the Regency.”

“This isn’t the Regency, though, is it? Now shut your stupid mouth or I’ll show you cruel. And don't you dare use the word we talking about the boss's brother or else you'll experience cruelty like you can't imagine.”

Damen had gotten his point across. It wasn’t too long more before Laurent returned. If he had to guess, Damen would say the only reason he hadn’t come sooner is because he wanted to make him wait.

“You’ve distressed Radel,” Laurent said.

“My heart bleeds.”

“No, that’ll be your shoulder. A little bit out of your mouth, too.” Laurent’s footsteps rang out. He stood close enough then, for Damen to feel under a spotlight, but naturally far enough away to be out of reach. “What’s so urgent you needed to scream the house down?”

Laurent was alone and unarmed. Damen had theories about that, too.He knew he could be projecting. Just because he chose not to use guns anymore, and focus his attention on other parts of the business like imports, exports and his own few gyms, didn't mean everyone else shared his aversion. Probably, not many other people were dumb enough to conduct an armed robbery without what many would view as essential arms. A machete could scare a cashier but it was no match for a gun-toting security guard.

What had stopped Laurent handing over his weapon when Damen asked during the chase? He had to have known by then that Damen wouldn't turn it on him. If nothing else, it didn't make sense at that time. He needed Laurent to get away.

“You haven’t gotten your inheritance yet, have you?” Damen ventured.

“Really? That’s what you called me in for? I have substantial personal income. My inheritance is none of your business.”

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

“I first got drunk not long after my brother died. As for legality, well, neither of us are concerned with that,” Laurent replied. “But I see you havereached some correct conclusions. Yes, my uncle has remained in charged of my father’s…organisation and businesses. The wills were very specific. Couldn’t have all that work and wealth wasted on a wayward youth.”

“Is that why you stole from your last remaining family member?”

“Partly. It’s not a bad way to spend a Wednesday morning. I have to get my kicks somewhere, since my uncle and all the board members are just waiting for me to mis-step and take my last claim to the company away.”

“Would he…” Well, maybe he had good reason not to want Laurent in charge. Stealing from family was unacceptable. And Damen hadn’t been joking when he said he knew about the unsavoury practices going on at The Regency. His family weren’t perfect but they followed a certain code. They didn’t doublecross people. They only provided services that were requested and they didn’t make innocent people suffer because of their activities. There were plenty of non-innocents ready and willing to take part. Men raised whole families off Akielon incomes. They put food on their tables and kids through college by driving for Damen or guarding his father. No-one else gave them that opportunity.

Veretians did fucked up things. They were snakes in human bodies and you never ever trusted them. They'd sink their fangs right into flesh as soon as you turned your back. During the recon, which Damen now doubted, the name Laurent had never came up. As far as Damen knew, he was away in college somewhere. In Damen's head, Auguste's younger brother was always a skinny boy. He never reckoned on the man standing here now.

Laurent worked here, in the laundry. His men seemed loyal and relatively decent. Before he knew who Damen really was, he treated him with as much regard as one could expect in their situation. Laurent was unarmed. The way he had acted during the chase…”Your gun wasn’t even loaded.” Damen's words came out with confidence.

“Is that so?”

“You didn’t reach for it once we got out. Not when they were shooting. Not when you recognised me,” Damen said. “You were the one who set me up. This is all a counter accusation to..”

“Close,” Laurent replied, “But no cigar. My uncle and I…we’ve been playing these games since before I could hold a gun. And I am sure you can guess why I am not too fond of them. But your theory is flawed. The gun not being loaded doesn’t mean I had anything to do with you being there. My uncle upset my plans again.”

“This is a game to you? Really.”

“I didn’t say it was one I enjoyed,” Laurent said. "It's how it goes, isn't it? An eye for an eye. A life for a life."

"A brother for a brother?"

"Not always. I doubt yours would mourn too deeply."  Said with a private kind of smile that hurt Damen inside. Just because Kastor wasn't openly affectionate, just because he climbed between Jokaste's long legs, didn't mean he wouldn't mourn. Families were complicated. Kastor had a mother and Damen didn't. Of course he got more attention growing up.  Damen had read enough online articles and taken what he thought would be easy college courses to understand their culture didn't exactly allow for demonstration of emotion. When you pride traditional masculinity, other things fall by the wayside.  Kastor would never hug him but family was family.

Laurent continued, "You brought a knife to a gunfight. You're hardly in a position to judge me."

"Why bring an empty gun? I've experience. You have knowledge. Did you really think it was a game? He'd let you go?"

"All right. If you are bored enough to want debate or lonely enough to need distraction than none of your so-called loyal people are looking for you, I'll engage." Laurent's face was blank except for the curl of derision thinning his lips. "Intent can mean more than purpose," he said. "We know what guns can do. We know the burst of fear that comes with a being faced with that cold, cold metal. Did you grow up around them? I did. Do you remember the first time someone shouted at you to not touch that, don't play with that? My mother hated guns. She wouldn't let my father's men in the house.  At her funeral, when my uncle hugged me, I felt the lump beneath his clothes."

Damen did not expect this. He didn't know what to do with it. Process or avoid? There was only one option with him.

"You're scared," he said. "You talk more when you're nervous."

"Think harder, sweetheart. This isn't scary.  You don't get to decide."

"Fine. You've given up.  You ever spend time around a dying man? They start to tell you things they never tell anyone else."

The blue eyes were cold. "I'll wait for you to spill your darkest fears then, shall I?"  The voice changed, mimicking Damen's accent and speech patterns. He was good at it, too. "I'll never prove myself to my big brave daddy. My brother made me a cuckold and no matter who else I fuck I can't get over it. I fight my way through life like it will make me a more important person than I already am."

"Fuck you," Damen said, lamely.

"Touched a nerve, did I?"

"You're way off. If I was afraid of anything, it's not those things. I've killed, and you know it.  Ever wonder what the future holds for someone like that? I do." Maybe he was dying, to be so open. Maybe he wanted Laurent to see he wasn't bad. He wasn't a soul-less murderer. He was...that's how life was sometimes, ok?

Laurent remained un-moved by Damen's plight.

"All right, class. Let's return to the topic on hand. The slow ones always try change the subject so they don't feel so small," Laurent announced, to no-one else but Damen. "There is time for theology later, but for not :the empty gun.  It's your smoking gun, in that stupid head, so I will explain. It will give you something to think about while you rot here. Consider it a gift, if you will. A little enlightenment."

"Aren't you a considerate host."

"It's about fear. The gun doesn't need to be loaded. I only needed the cashiers to believe it was. The fear of being shot is ingrained deep in our psyche. Did you get driven to school in an armoured car? I did, after you killed my brother."

"We had someone check beneath ours, after you planted bombs. Still do."

"God help whatever sod got that prize job," Laurent replied. "And I never planted a bomb.  I was still playing with remote control cars when that happened. Anyway, what was my point?"

"Fear," said Damen. He wondered if that kid Pallas was afraid the first time he looked under Damen's father's car. Vere wasn't even their only enemy. 

"You've never really been afraid, have you? Your family's rep and your disgusting displays of wealth and privelege pampered you your whole damn life."

"You're hardly on the breadline," Damen said.

"Have you ever been tied up before? Have you ever felt the barrel of a gun between your lips?" Laurent spoke with cool detachment. "Tell me, when you were a boy were you ever in rooms with men who wanted to play with you in the worst ways? Have you ever asked one of the girls at your brother's clubs what it's like to run to their cars after a shift, not knowing if some dirty punter is going to assault them?"

"We make sure they have escorts," Damen replied. "They're safe."

Laurent let out a breath of laughter. "God, think about why they need escorts. Girls learn to be scared of men from the the day they are born.  Boys, too, sometimes. Think about the stripper dashing to her car and the convict bouncer you employ to watch her. Think about the fact that she knows fear just because he's a man. Now think about the gun."

Damen had no answer.

"While you're at it," Laurent said. "Think about what you do to people. Ever have one of your boys refuse to check for a car bomb. Fear is an excellent motivator. The chamber doesn't need to be loaded."

"What about defense?"

"The charges for armed robbery are the same, even if the weapon isn't real. I read about a man who went to court because he held up a corner store with a banana under his sweater. But I have mimimal blood on my hands."

"Self-defense, I mean."

Laurent sighed. "We don't know each other at all.  So if you have nothing of value to add…”

“Wait,” Damen said. “I’m thinking.”

“I’ll come back later. I am sure that will take some time.”

“Your uncle doesn’t want you to take your place in Vere,” Damen said. “He must know that it would…that I am the last person you want to see. He must’ve arranged for us to get the information at a time that suits him.”

“He’d know your presence would throw me, certainly. None of this is new information to me. Think harder, if you want to ever get out of here alive.”

“I’m definitely getting out of here alive."

“Oh?” With one golden brow raised. “Confident, are we?”

“If you wanted to kill me you would have done it already.”

“Or I want you to hurt first. I want to wring you out until there’s nothing left.” He didn’t step closer but Laurent did bend slightly at the waist so his blue eyes were level with Damen’s. “You think you’re strong but all men react the same to a little torture. I know. I've been there. You’ll tell me what you know.” From behind his back, Laurent produced a knife. The blade gleamed. He’d done a good job of concealing it. Damen could usually spot someone carrying a mile off.

“What if I don’t know anything?”

The blade was cold against Damen’s cheek now. He didn’t flinch from it. He barely blinked.

“Then I’ll just have the fun of hearing you beg,” Laurent replied.

There might have been people who would try to negotiate now, but Damen wasn’t one of them. Certainly, Laurent could summon the cold and twisted Veretian nature when necessary but something told Damen it wasn’t his natural instinct. The brother had been the same. Everyone in their territory loved Auguste. He was the kind of heir who no-one would ever suspect of being part of of a criminal family. It might have been in his blood, but it wasn’t in his nature to be fearsome. The name was enough, along with the capability, for people to respect Auguste. His people loved him. He was the kind of man who gave kids rides in his ill-gotten sports car just to make them smile.

Maybe some of that had rubbed off on the younger brother.

“Do what you must,” Damen said. A gamble, but a small one. He had one more card to play. Later.

If nothing else, that surprised Laurent. His face showed that, briefly, and then there was the sound of a vibrating phone and his face was blank.

“Not a word,” he warned. Damen was speechless at the fact Laurent answered the phone in front of him. “Uncle,” he said, pleasantly. “How are you today?”

The volume was loud enough for Damen to hear both sides. He could have shouted out - identified himself and the fact his family would ransom him. It was a gamble but the odds were in his favour. It’s what he’d advise anyone else to do.

He didn’t do it.

“I’m a little upset, Laurent,” came the equally mild reply. “There was a robbery in the cash office this morning. Quite a substantial amount was taken.”

“Oh, dear. Not again. Did they get much?”

“You know it was more than one person?”

“It’s 2017. I don’t like to assume pronouns.”

“They got enough,” the uncle said. “Almost as much as you lost in that little venture last Winter.”

“Imagine that,” Laurent said, flatly. “Did you just call to share your bad news with me? That was a waste of time. You know how I feel about Govart and the fighting and…the rest.”

“Where were you this morning?”

“Here. At the laundry, where I am almost daily now I've finished school. Didn’t you get my emails?”

“I’ve been busy.”

Damen’s head was spinning. Why couldn’t they just fight like normal families? If that was him and Kastor, they’d be brawling by now. Then they’d shake it off and move on with their lives. Normal, see?

“Well, that's unfortunate.” said Laurent. “If you want the name of my security guy, I can send someone to review your systems. Other than that, I am busy.”

“Washing my dirty sheets. I’ve been sending them over with the hotel linen.”

Laurent didn’t like that. He quickly turned his head away from Damen. “You know I don’t actually touch anything,” he said, sweetly. “These hands are far too good for that.”

“Whatever you say, my boy.” The voice changed. The cool edge was replaced by something jovial, directed away from Laurent. “Ah, Kastor. Take a seat. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Don’t hang up,” hissed Damen, while his heart leaped in his chest. Kastor was looking for him. Kastor was….

“Who are you meeting with?” Laurent asked, simultaneously, waving Damen’s request away.

“I wasn’t going to say. I know how you can be…” The uncle sighed. “But you may as well know. I’ve been…negotiating with Kastor for a while. We think we can work well together.”

“Yes,” said Laurent. “I see how you could work with a bastard.” He hung up.

“I told you not to—”

“You don’t tell me what to do,” Laurent spat. He was frustrated and he was well capable of paying that out on Damen. “It was no co-incidence that my uncle took that meeting there. You still want to play at ignorance?”

Damen, for a second, thought the chair was tilting again. But it was actually his world. His brother was meeting with the current head of Vere. If he could be believed, this was not their first time meeting. Kastor, who was ambitious and power-hungry. Kastor, who effectively stole Jokaste out from under Damen’s nose. Her words came back to Damen again _. Get in. Get out._

Get out of what - Akielos?

“Answer me.” Laurent kicked Damen’s shin, which would have been childishly funny if he wasn’t also waving a knife around.

“About what?” Damen shouted back. “What do you want to hear from me? No answer will satisfy your anger. Nothing I say will —” Bring your brother back. He didn’t say it. “—Change your opinion of me. If my brother is meeting with your uncle, it’s not with my consent or knowledge. He was the one who sent me on this job. He told me to take my friend, knowing I wouldn’t risk it. He set me up. Kastor.”

Laurent was breathing hard. It took a second for him to compose himself. “How does it feel?”

“What —”

“Being betrayed by your family. Hurts, doesn’t it? Not as much as— but it’s something.” His breathing was back under control. Damen couldn’t tell if he meant any of these words or if it was just what he thought he should say. Maybe Laurent had spent so many years hating him that he didn’t know how to see he was a person. The phone buzzed again. “If it’s my uncle, should I put you on speaker? I am quite sure they think you’re dead by now. Everyone who knows me knows what I planned to do to you.”

Planned. Past tense.

“Do as you must,” Damen said, again. “But I think you’d rather exceed your reputation than live up to it.”

“You only think that because you want to live.” A glance at the phone. “It was Jord, anyway. He’s got our informant. Let’s see if the story checks  
out.”

“Don’t— She’s just —”

“She?”

“It’s not the cashier?”

“No. It’s Aimeric. The annoying hostage. Conveniently, he hates me as much as he hates Akielos,” Laurent replied. His mouth twisted into an odd smile. “Hang tight,” he said. “It won’t be much longer.”

 

~*~

 

Damen waited. There might have been people who could have waited patiently, but Damen was not one of them. Oh, yes, he could have patience when it was necessary. You don’t reach his physical shape without patiently slogging away in the gym. You don’t reach his status without spending a few nights in cold vans or frosty rooftops gather necessary information to eliminate your competition. Depending on the predicament, he either despatched his men to do it for him or did it with his own two hands. He was not above hard work, though his methods had changed in the recent years.

Since Auguste and Vere and the mess it had rained down upon Akielon heads.

Damen didn’t think about that often. There was no point in dwelling on the past. But today, it was a lesser pain to remember what he had done to Laurent’s brother than to consider what his own brother was doing to him. Back then, he hadn’t expected the ambush. He wasn’t expecting it from Kastor either. Back then, it was meant to be a meeting courteously done between heads of warring families. They were meant to be mature enough to accept that no matter the perceived injustice of gaining and losing territory it paled in comparison to losing men and money. There had been months of bloodshed and bad investments in the run up to the meeting. There were rules, you see, when it came to this kind of things.

Criminal gangs. Organised crime. Damen felt silly referring to it like that, even in his own head. That language seemed the domain of bad movies and sensationalist newspaper articles. But facts were facts and rules were rules. It was quite monumental that his father had even agreed to meet with Vere’s representative when Vere were the ones who had broken the rules in the first place. Delpha was theirs. You were meant to respect that. And if someone disrespected your domain, then you show them you’re not to be messed with. Otherwise, you’d have the whole world thinking they could wipe their feet on your good carpet. You don’t tolerate insolence. You don’t negotiate with terrorists, as they say.

His father had said all that and Damen listened, rapt, believing every word. He had never know another way of life. Youthful idealism, arrogance and blind devotion never a good combination make.

Damen wondered if Laurent was devoted to anything but himself. He thought about fear and what it meant to other people. What men could do and what guns could do.

Damen waited.

Eventually, Laurent returned with a silver can of Diet Coke in his left hand. It seemed incongruous; too ordinary for man who looked like that.

“Drink,” he said. “Don’t waste time with delays. It’s a can from a vending machine supplied by an outside business. No poison possible.”

Damen still didn’t reach for it. His good arm was cuffed, the other cradled in an invisible sling because he did know something about self-preservation. The less strain he put on this stupid injury the quicker he’d be back to normal. He hadn’t gone to the hospital the last time he was shot, either, and he still remembered the matter-of-fact way the dodgy doctor his father kept on standby had stitched him up. Like Damen’s path in life would inevitably lead to his rundown office and him running back out the door with the same clothes on and a small cache of painkillers in his back pocket. The memory galled him now.

“Other nineteen year olds go to college,” he said. “They do Contiki tours and stay in hostels, not honest to goodness castles.”

“I’m twenty,” said Laurent. “Drink the damn Coke.”

“Open it for me,” Damen said. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

The ring pull cracked. A plastic straw appeared. There was nothing servile about the detached way Laurent held the drink near Damen’s lips.

“We haven’t time for your maudlin reflections. You’re not feverish or delirious.” Laurent spoke with so much authority for someone so young.

Almost as much as Damen had at that age.

“I’m losing my mind in this room,” Damen replied. “You need to tell me what you are going to do.”

“No.”

“Get me a phone then.”

“No.”

“I just —”

“I don’t care,” Laurent said. “I don’t care about what you need. I don’t care about what you want. We were thrown together against my will but that doesn’t mean I have to feel anything for someone like you…a violent brute with your whores and your thugs and your pig-headed attitude. You with your arrogance, your brother with his ambition, your father with his hubris - you can all circle jerk into the fountain of masculinity for all I care. You’re nothing to me but a waste of air and a source of information,”

“That’s an awful lot of words for someone who doesn’t care.”  Damen was staying calm now. Someone had to. Whatever happened with the boy Aimeric had awakened a new temper in Laurent.

This time, it was his cheekbone that felt the crack. Laurent had a mean backhand and hatred to spur him on.

“Careful.” Not for the first time, Laurent leaned in very close. “I’m learning all sorts of things I don’t like this evening. You don’t want me to learn enough to dispense of you.”

“You won’t do that."

"Everyone talks after a little light torture. I have very few limits.” Laurent had one foot between Damen’s legs. There was flush all the way up his neck. It drew attention to the clean line of his jaw, which only highlighted the fullness of his lips.

“I believe you.” Damen kept his chin up. He refused to cower under the blue gaze. “I’m sure a brat like you is capable of all kinds of depravity. But you should believe that if you do anything to me, you won’t like the consequence. My friends and family are loyal.”

“Your brother betrayed you.”

“Perhaps.” It hurt to say it. It hurt more when Laurent pressed his index finger into the freshly split skin on his cheek. “We’ve had some disagreements lately about the direction we take our business. Your dear uncle has probably offered him what we will not. The same dear uncle whose people fired indiscriminately at your getaway van.”

“There’s nothing your pondscum people won’t touch. I can't see what Kastor would want that he couldn't find in your rotten empire. He's already taken your girl.”

Damen yawned. It hurt a little, too. “Come on, you sound like a stubborn child. You know we don’t touch hard drugs or people. You know what your uncle does at that resort. Won’t all that be yours some day.”

“Not if my uncle has his way. He worked with your brother to eliminate us both.”

“Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean Akielos will take kindly to the … dishonour of having their beloved heir hurt by you in any way. Perhaps that was your uncle’s plan. I am quite well-liked, you know.”

“Modest, too.”

Damen thought Laurent might relent then but grabbed his face, squeezed his jaw and turned Damen’s defiant expression into something pathetic. He might as well have spat. Damen could have struggled. He possible could have broken free. But he forced himself to bear it.

“You know I’m right,” he said. “It pains you to admit it but if we just..”

“That is not what pains me.” Laurent was practically on top of Damen now. It was centimetres, not inches between their faces. If Damen was the type to spit, he’d have no need to even aim. “You ignorant fuck, nothing about your family spats and pointless politics pain me. I don’t care.” The words ground out now and Damen believed them. Laurent cared about something else a lot more. “My uncle does not want to give me my inheritance. This is nothing new. Your brother wants your place in the world. This has been happening since gods taught lessons and kings waged war. It’s life,” he said. “What …” His voice shook. “You killed my brother. You caused…”

Damen’s ignorance at least partly disappeared. Without his brother, and his father, Laurent had been left vulnerable. He was so vulnerable that his uncle kept his entitlements out of reach. The beautiful, lethal, cunning Veretian heir was reduced to a two-bit laundry operation and holding up the family business for cash. Damen was cuffed to a water pipe. Laurent had nowhere to go. He probably couldn’t leave the maze in his own head.

Out of nowhere, Damen remembered a young man who had defected from Vere to Akielos. He was an informer for a little bit but he couldn’t stay clean. You can’t trust an addict, even if you were the one supplying the drugs. That boy, with the red hair and the potential to be handsome, had nothing left on the inside. He’d been one of Laurent’s uncle’s inner circle once.

“I know,” said Damen. “For the death of your brother and all the ugly aftere ffects, I am accountable. I take responsibility.” He turned his head away from Laurent to look at his own arm, dangling on the end of a cuff. “That’s the hand that pulled the trigger. Cutting it off won’t bring him back. It won’t change anything. Did you see my scar when the doctor patched me up?” He looked down at his own chest. Laurent’s eyes followed. His hand, then, pulling open the remains of his shirt. “They left the bullet in,” he said. “Your brother’s bullet is still inside me. It was too dangerous to take it out, can you believe that? It’s still —”

“Shut up!” Laurent reared back like a spooked horse.

“We weren’t expected it,” Damen continued. “It was meant to be a civilised meeting between the families.”

“You meant to give us your terms of surrender after trampling all over what was ours.”

“It was never really yours and you know it,” Damen said.

“The people loved us there.”

“Because your father and uncle gave them Sodom and Gomorrah and plenty of opiates to keep things interesting.”

“Could your god complex be any larger?” Laurent said, and he had recovered his usual cool tone. Damen nearly admired that. But he wouldn’t allow himself to be turned around.

“My whole family was willing to meet with the Veretian representative,” Damen said. “We were unarmed. We were in a fucking kebab shop, Laurent, when they petrol bombed our vans. The representative spat at my father’s feet. He tore up our terms and —”

“You broke his neck, as I heard it.”

“I did,” said Damen. “I don’t mind saying it, either. It was just after the gunfire started and I needed a weapon. My father told me not to go but I wouldn’t listen. It was pride. I don’t mind admitting that either. I made sure they were safe, my family, and I went out into the street. The cars were burning. The locals were hiding. And there was your brother, directing it all. We lost so many men, did you know that? There’s so many orphans relying on us now.”

“We lost men too.”

“You did,” Damen said. “Your brother’s bodyguards were the last to go down. I was alone. Unguarded. It was the most vulnerable I’d ever been. I don’t know how I got that close, going from shield to shield, waiting for the sirens. He had a clear aim and he took it. The bullet is still there. I don’t know why he didn’t fire again —”

“He was good,” Laurent said. “He wouldn’t just…not in cold blood. He was the only good thing this family every produced and you flicked your stupid finger and ended it all.”

“I managed to pick back up my gun,” Damen said. “I had a clear shot…I thought….no, at the time I didn’t think anything. Looking back, I think he wanted to see if he had got me. Where he had got me.”

“It wasn’t that. My brother wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood.”

“He had a gun. He made it all happen. I had a gun and bullet in my flesh,” Damen said.

“You have a crack shot. Everyone knows it.”

“I shot him. He died.” It could have been me. But it wasn’t so he didn’t say it. “I’m —”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I am, though. I’m so —”

“Be quiet,” Laurent snapped, just as the man Jord gingerly opened the door. “Send him down,” he said to Jord.

Damen started to sweat. Laurent had no love for him. He might turn him over to Kastor himself, if it was true (it was true) that Kastor meant to eliminate him. He might turn him over to his uncle if it meant moving to a better position on the chessboard.

“Laurent,” Damen said, with no real idea of what would follow. “Listen…it doesn’t have to be like this.”

“We were born with it being like this, you fool.” His face had gotten close again. Shadowed, it reminded Damen of something from a painting. A young prince or an avenging angel. “You can’t just have the money and privilege, the fast cars and fast women, the expensive booze and adrenaline rushes and pretty boys batting their lashes at you. There’s a price. There’s always a price.”

“Yes. I’m paying it now, aren’t I?”

Laurent sneered. “This is nothing and you know it. The price is pain. Remember that, when you think of your brother fucking your girlfriend and then fucking you over. When you close your eyes tonight, remember my face and —”

Another knock at the door.

“He’s here,” called Jord.

Internally, Damen called on all his defenses. Laurent had un-nerved him. He had to be strong for whatever came next.

The door opened.

Damen blinked. It can’t be, he thought, but it was.

It was Nikandros.

“Jesus Christ. What have you done to him?” But Nik rushed to Damen, not Laurent. First to check the wounds, then the restraints. “Akielons won’t forget this,” Nikandros swore. “Mark my words. You will pay for.”

“It’s OK,” Damen said, hoarsely.

“It’s OK,” Laurent echoed, mockingly. “Damianos, I called your friend to retrieve you. That was very kind of me. Stupid, my uncle would say, but he’s not here. I’m sure you would have fetched a pretty ransom.”

“Do you need to go the ER?” Nikandros asked.

“Just get me out of here. Laurent, if you wouldn’t mind.” With a rattle of his cuffs. Damen could play at cold politeness too.

“Jord.”

“I thought you had the key, boss.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Nik said. “What kind of amateur place is this? Get an axe, then. I’m not waiting.”

“An axe?” Jord seemed to be speaking for himself and his boss.

“From your fire kit. Or a hacksaw. Or else I’m removing this pipe.”

Laurent found a small axe. He refused to hand it to Nikandros. Damen’s heart was beating very fast as Laurent cocked his head.

“Remember this too,” he said, and swung. It was a clean hit. The links shattered and Damen’s cuffed wrist was free. Instinct made him surge to his feet, despite his weakness. He had the chance to stand so he was going to take it.

“Come on,” Nikandros said. He knew Damen well enough not to offer his arm until they were away from anyone associated with Vere.

“I need my helmet and my bag,” Damen said. He didn’t wait for permission.

“I keep the bag. The cash is mine,” Laurent said. Damen didn’t argue, either. He wasn’t one for scheming but he wasn’t about to leave this long, hard, fucked-up day with nothing. He wasn’t going to lose.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” Damen was injured, after all. It made sense that he would fumble. He was injured and he was in enemy ground. It made sense that he wouldn’t argue and just get out of here as soon as possible. He kept the helmet under his good arm, faintly alarmed at the fact that he had a bad arm now and he didn’t know how long it would effect him. “I hope you drove,” he said to Nik. “I won’t be on my bike for a while.” He gave one last look at Laurent, who was now leaning against a large cart. “But you could wheel me in that cart they brought in for my body if need be.”

He would not think about how tired Laurent looked. There was still a phantom fizz in his veins from when their faces, their bodies, had been so close. Adrenaline does funny things.

Laurent just fixed him with an impenetrable stare. No goodbyes, then.

How else could it be between them? A frosty detente was the best case scenario.

Blindly, Damen followed Jord and Nikandros through the basement hallways. Pipes hissed and rattled. His shoulder throbbed with every step.

Talking was more than he could manage, even in the sanctuary of Nik’s car. He collapsed against the cool leather seat and took what felt like his very first breath.

“Don’t bleed on my interiors,” Nik said. He was a good friend like that.

Damen didn’t answer. He just showed Nikandros his helmet and found energy to smile when his friend laughed.

Damen’s eyes were heavy but he would not let them close. Nikandros would fret too much if he lost consciousness in a moving car. He just had to make to a bed, or a chair, where he could rest and forget what had happened. He could hear Nikandros giving instructions. Get their doctor. Take a left. Don’t tell anyone. Have someone pick up his phone.

“No..” Damen muttered.

“Yes. We’re going to my apartment. It’s…” He couldn’t finish the sentence but Damen knew what he was going to say. Safer. Nikandros’s place was safer. “That brat meant to keep the cash, didn’t he?”

“He won’t follow.” Damen sounded less certain than he felt.

“Still…”

“You can say it.”

“Not here.” With a glance to Pallas who was driving. Pallas who was the most promising young man that had crossed their path in ages. Damen had even taken him aside more than once to ask if he was sure this was what he wanted. Kastor had snorted when he found out. His father had scolded him. Nik wouldn’t bring up what Kastor had done in front of him, though. Or maybe he thought the car was bugged. You could never be too careful, after all.

“I want to go home,” Damen said.

“Tough,” said Nik. “My place is closer.” He also had an underground parking space right by the elevators. Damen hardly needed help standing. When they reached Nik’s floor, and he saw another trusted associated on red alert in the hallway. Lydos was a man of his father’s generation and generally nothing phased him. But his eyes went momentarily wide until something in Nik’s expression made him school his features. “He’s fine,” Nikandros said. “Not even all his blood. The doctor is on his way.”

“His father?”

“Hello, I am right here,” Damen said.

“Sorry,” said Lydos. “It’s just…I was at your christening, you know?”

“Don’t worry.” Damen managed a smile. “It’s under control.”

“Tell no-one,” Nikandros said. “You know the rest of the drill.”

“Check with me first before taking any action.” Damen had terrible visions of Laurent turning up to reclaim the cash and getting shot like his brother. “Or letting anyone in.”

“Yes, boss.”

Safe in the familiar apartment, Damen collapsed onto the familiar couch. He’d watched the World Cup final on this couch. He’d puked off the side into a saucepan after too many tequilas. He wouldn’t say no to a tequila now. Or any kind of liquor.

“I won’t even complain about your inferior whiskey as long as you pass me the bottle ASAP,” Damen said. “Don’t bother with the glass.”

“I bought Jameson Reserve after the last time you bitched me out. You can have the bottle once the doctor checks you out.”

“I —”

“Don’t even think about saying their doctor did it.”

“I need to shower. Use the john.”

“I don’t care about seeing your dick. I know, I know, it’s a small minority. Just don’t lock the door. I’ll get Lykaios to bring some fresh clothes for you.”

“Thanks, man.” Damen’s voice was unusually throaty. “I don’t have my phone. I need to call my dad.”

“What are you going to tell him?” Nikandros asked. “Damen, no-one was looking for you.”

“I…” He needed to think what to do about Kastor. “He’s sick. I check in with him at least once a day.”

Nikandros unlocked his phone. He didn’t even protest when Damen took it into the bathroom with him.

 

  
~*~

Turns out, getting shot and basically kidnapped leaves you kind of lightheaded. Damen barely managed to freshen up and before his head got light. But he managed a normal conversation with his father and to tie Nik’s robe without assistance, so that was something. He didn’t make it back to the couch though. Whatever. Nikandros brought him here he could deal with Damen comandeering his bed for one night. The doctor was waiting. Damen didn’t like doctors, as a rule. He didn’t trust them to follow their oaths. He’d seen them do plenty of harm. Also, they generally made pain worse before they made it better.

He endured an examination, stupid questions, and then received the conclusion he had drawn himself. The bullet went straight through. The wound was stitched well. Of course, an x-ray would be best but unless Damen was willing to trek to the veterinarian’s office that was not about to happen.

“Did you see my father today?” he asked.

“You know we can’t disclose —”

“Don’t pull the ethics card now. This is the third bullet wound you’ve examined on me. I was thirteen, for the first one. That’s the kind of thing most doctors call the cops over.” Alas, the attempt at cool intimidation was mitigated somehwhat by the fact Damen was wearing a bathrobe on half his body only. And the fact that the doctor here was the one who controlled how much painkillers he got.

“I haven’t seen your father since last Thursday. There’s a little damage to his lungs, unfortunately. TB is a terrible dose, especially to children and older people. I’d never personally seen a case, you know? It’s mostly eradicated but, well, I digress. He is doing well. Very well.”

“Great,” said Damen.

“Are you in pain? You’ve gone white.”

“I’m in pain,” Damen said. “Hit me with that good shit, doc.”

Oblivion would be easier than this. His mind was hurtling backwards, to the secondhand information and the sound of his father’s lungs rattling through the walls. Kastor had looked so concerned, and he had stepped seamlessly into the older brother, eldest son role. Damen, terrified of losing his only parent, had let him. He hadn’t delved too deep into medical technicalilities. His lungs…Kastor had said and Damen assumed the worst.

“I’m leaving anti-inflammatories and painkillers here. One of each now and every four hours as needed.” He dropped a bottle onto the locker. “I’ll come back late with antibiotics just in case. Nik, have you got that?”

Even the doctor could tell Damen wasn’t paying attention. He swallowed the pills dry. “Something to help me sleep?”

“You won’t need it,” he promised. “I’ll be back soon.”

Nikandros walked the doctor out then fixed one of his I’ve-known-you-longer-than-anyone stares Damen’s way. “You never look for drugs.”

That was true. Damen had always valued health, valued the sanctity of his own body. He had seen too many people succumb to addictions.

“It’s been a long day,” Damen replied. “You heard what he said about my father.”

“I’d hoped it wasn’t as bad as you feared. Even though…”

“Kastor led me to believe otherwise,” Damen supplied. “It’s not just that.” He didn’t want to voice the thought, which was little more than a tendril at this point. He thought of the words he had thrown at Laurent about what was happening at the Veretian. Everyone knew they were trafficking in vulnerable people from overseas to work for a pittance. Modern day slavery. He had thought they were better than that.”Where would someone like my father contract TB?”

~*~

 

Damen slept. There might be people who could live on adrenaline and anxiety but after the day he had (and, hello, being shot) Damen was not one of them. He could push through almost anything when necessary but when it was over, he slept. He woke to sunlight and voices raised in the living room. It wasn’t like Nikandros to shout. He was usually composed, direct and authoritive enough to not have to shout to get his way. So

Damen worried. Damen winced and heaved himself out of the bed. There was a moment of light-headedness when he put his weight on the hardwood floor but he didn’t succumb to it.

“Nik,” he said, thick-voiced. “What’s—oh. Never mind. I’m going back to bed.”

“He won’t let me see you,” Jokaste said. Perfectly calm, expertly coiffed, she stood by the coffee table like she had strolled off a runway.

“He knows me well,” Damen replied. “Get out.”

Her blue eyes narrowed, the only sign of emotion she would give. Damen thought of Laurent.

“That’s what I said to you,” she said.

“When you told me how you’d been fucking my brother?”

“Look,” Nikandros interrupted. “You’ve seen he’s alive. You’ve brought over the clothes.”

“What were you doing in my aparment?”

“I still have a key. Your housemaid was surprised but she showed me your clean laundry,” Jokaste replied. “Damen…I don’t know what happened yesterday but I am—”

“I don’t care,” Damen said. “You know what you down. You let me walk into a trap.” His anger was rising.

“Bro, I think you should lie down.”

“You wouldn’t have believed me if I told you,” Jokaste said, confidently.

“I guess we’ll never know. You need to get out before I do —”

Get in. Get out.

Jokaste had said that. More than once. His anger redirected itself. He remembered the first time Jokaste brought him to her apartment. There was no food in the kitchen and the bed sagged in the middle. Yet, she looked like a million dollars on their date. He had seen her cry exactly twice and both of those times were during Game of Thrones. People, men, rarely listened to women like Jokaste. If you didn’t come from a powerful family, what chance have you?

“I’m going to do what you said.” The words just came out. Nikandros cursed, and it was not under his breath.

“Get rid of the sword hanging in your hallway? I told you it give serial killer vibes and you didn’t listen.”

“No,” Damen said. “That stays. I won it when I was seventeen. I’m getting out, Jokaste”

She nodded, once, and a smile ghosted across her lips. “Your heart was never hard enough for that business,” she said. “Especially considering what’s coming. The women like me, you know, if you need information. Leverage to get out. Kastor’s sent some over to the Veretian.”

“All right,” he said.

“Take care, Damen.”

“You too.”

She was playing a dangerous game but she had gone in with both eyes open. That was the difference. You choose some things and other things are beyond your control.

Damen had been born lucky and he had more choices than most. He remembered the scorn he had thrown at the Veretians. He remembered  
thinking nothing of leaving his car at any of Akielos’s garages without ever thinking about the people working there. The women in Kastor’s clubs he’d gone behind curtains with. He knew Lykaios was paid out of the family funds. He didn’t know how she came to be in their employment.

It was time to make better choices. He could do that.

“Sit down,” Nikandros was saying. “You look like you’re going to be sick. Should I call the doctor?”

Damen sat. “I might puke,” he said. “But I don’t need a doctor.”

The cuffs were still on his wrist. There might as well have been iron bands across his chest.

“What are you planning to do?” asked Nikandros.

Damen shrugged. The plans were only forming.

And he couldn’t say then that his first port of call was to be Laurent.


	2. (if it don't fit)

The good thing about getting shot was that no-one expected you to be in top form the next day. Or even the next several days. It was nice, nearly, to have a break except the circumstances were rather shitty. Anyway, Damen had time to figure shit out. The doctor checked him over again and left more drugs. Nikandros ordered lots of food and left Damen in charge of the remote as he dozed on and off on the couch. He called his father, nervous about having to lie about what happened after the robbery. His concerns were unfounded. The conversation was brief and required little of Damen but to say ‘yes sir’ ‘no sir’ ‘three bags full, sir’.

Then again, that was always how it was with them. Even as an adult, Damen had never questioned his father’s authority. Even now, with the reality of Akielon activities laid bare Damen was just happy to hear his father’s healthy voice.

“Don’t,” Damen said, in response to the look Nikandros was giving him. “I can’t just accuse my own father without real evidence. He’s been sick. He may not even know.” Desperation would have been better than the hollow sound of his voice. His father did not know about Kastor sending Damen to the Regency. That was a given. His father probably knew (definitely knew) about the use of slave labour, to put it delicately. Maybe Theomedes found a way in his head to justify it (life is better here than where they come from. They have food, shelter and they aren't abused. Don't we use products from sweatshops? Doesn't capitalism always exploit?) Maybe that was Damen's voice, not his father's. Maybe the great and wise Theomedes just accepted it as normal. Dog eat dog. Survival of the fittest. All that bullshit.

“Is it so different? Isn’t it to be expected in this line of business?” Nik asked. “It's a life indenture, when you join up with your father. I'm still by your side, and it was my father who made the choice.”

“They are people,” Damen said.

“They are all people. Surely you know…Never mind.”

“Spit it out.”

“Why do you think I left?” Then, like he had been gathering the strength to go further, “Did you really not know?”

Damen couldn't say the truth : I chose blissful ignorance. I didn't see, because it wasn't me.

“I'm too groggy to talk about this,” Damen said. “I googled that stuff, you know? And the talked to the doc earlier. He took a blood sample. And he's trying to get vaccines. Did you know there's a shortage?”

“How would I know that?” Nikandros sounded vaguely amused. “So was Theomedes not vaccinated?”

“I guess not,” Damen said. “I'm sure we were. But not the...people they brought in. TB's basically eradicated here but not in other parts of the world. There's like stigma and whatever. People die. Maybe my father could've died. Maybe he...”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Damen might have said, maybe this is reaching except he had talked to the doctor. There had been an outbreak. Theomedes wasn't the only one and furthermore his father, considering his position, rarely interacted with those outside his royal circle. It's not like someone sneezed on him in the supermarket or got too close at, like, a a shelter or whatever. His father had people do that stuff for him. Paid people. Then there were the others, who cleaned his house and cooked his meals. There had been nannies, when Damen was a child.

You wondered, now.

“You're just one person, Damen.” Nikandros said. “There are limits.”

But in their world, Damen's limits were never enforced before.

Then, after some silence.“Your phone is ringing.”

It was Kastor. Damen assumed calling their father had broken whatever dam had prevented Kastor getting in touch sooner. Maybe, for a while, his brother had thought his plan had worked. Goodbye, competition. Hello, Vere and an uncontested run at their father’s legacy. People are cheaper than drugs and cars, someone had said once in some quiet booth of a restaurant. Damen had laughed because everyone else did. His mind had gone straight to willing sex workers. He’d always had the best things in life in terms of recreations. What was a fifty for a dance or a Louis Vuitton bag for the girl who kept you bed warm? But those men, Kastor’s associates, hadn’t been thinking Damen’s crass thoughts. Their thoughts were worse.

_Get in. Get out._

_They’re all people._

_You killed my brother!_

Or maybe they were honest about who they were.

“I don’t want to talk to him,” Damen said, aware he sounded like a petulant child.

“I can.”

“You’ll start a war,” Damen replied. “Give me my painkillers first.”

“Then you’ll start a war,” Nik said. “Answer him. It’s for the best.”

Damen picked up the phone. “Kastor,” he said. Instead of sounding like a child, he felt like a child. You never stop being the younger brother, even when you’re grown. It must be like that for Laurent, except Laurent never got the chance to learn his brother was a person in his own right. Damen never thought of his mother as anything but some warm being who would have given him his favorite dinners every day if she had lived. In reality, he didn’t know if she was a hugger or if she could cook or if he would be looking up at her or into her eyes if she was still alive. He had to ask his father those things, soon. Before it was too late.

“Damen.”

Silence.

Then, “You didn’t check in.”

“No. It was…rough. But I’m fine. Thanks for asking, big bro.”

“You sound weird.”

“Articulate as ever,” Damen replied.

“Fuck you.” It was nearly like old times. “We need to debrief. I need to know. There are deals at stake and —”

“Kastor, I took a bullet in the shoulder. I’m keeping the money.”

His brother let out a little laugh. “Very funny.”

“Getting shot again isn’t funny. Remember the first time it happened?”

“That was an accident and —”

“I’m tired. I’m sore,” Damen said. “I’ve been looking to expand the gym. This is my down payment. We’ll discuss the rest later.”

“What else is there?” Kastor said. Then, in a different voice. “What’s gotten into you? Damen, we need money for a different expansion. Dad’s not up to —”

“Later,” Damen said, meaning never. He was the one who hung up, which felt like a big thing when you were the younger brother. When you’d had a lifetime of  
knowing your existence as the son of your father and his wife trumped being the son of your father and his mistress, you do what you can to make up for that.

“Damen?” Nikandros asked.

“There’s no place for me there any more,” he said.

“They’re your family.”

“I know. That’s why it hurts. I’ll take the drugs now, Nik.” It wasn’t a question. The pain was a lot, and so was everything else.

“Need anything else?”

“How fast can you get me a Polaroid camera? Don’t give me that look. I’m serious.”

Nikandros sighed. He was a good friend. He did what Damen asked, with basically no questions. He smiled, gently, when the drugs made Damen’s brain fuzz and his lips loose.

“You saw it coming,” Damen said.

“Bro, I play this game most days.”

“I meant —”

“I’ve tried to warn you.”

“No-one likes a told you so.” Later, his mouth got freer. He knew he was saying things he might regret, or should regret had he said them to anyone else. Talking felt good, when he ached in body and soul. “It was fun,” he said. “Until….and I liked him.”

“I’ve seen him.”

“I liked him before I saw him. Under the ski mask. All that…sharpness. His voice…it was hot. Even when I was…there…I liked it.”

“Oh, man.” Nikandros passed his hand over his face “He hates you.”

“Yeah.” Damen shifted on the sofa. It was easy to slouch but hard to get comfortable. "I'm kinda high."

"That's the drugs, bro."

"Do you think he'll ever forgive me?"

“You killed his brother.”

“He captured me. I was shot.”

“Laurent.”

“Auguste fired first,” Damen said. That’s what he remembered. Then, “He’s different.”

The doorbell rang. The camera had arrived.  


See, Damen was not above some minor torment. Laurent was attractive, intriguing, but he had also threatened him and tied him up in a basement after he’d been shot. Doubt was growing but his father had always taught him that you don’t let anyone walk all over you. Not even Laurent, who had let him go. Who could have let him bleed to death but instead called a doctor and then his best friend. You had to think of practical things, like paper trails and the fucking iCloud. Damen was smart. Too smart to snap a pic of the loot on his phone. It was cash, quite a lot of cash, not a fucking fancy coffee.

He took a Polaroid of the money he had stolen twice, first from the casino and then from Laurent, had found someone to hand deliver it to the laundry where Laurent worked. It was dangerous.

“You don’t antagonize a snake,” Nik said.

“You’re right. Call him back. I’ll get a courier service. Just in case any of Vere’s guards are trigger happy.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I’m done with other people suffering for me,” Damen said.

 

~*~

 

 

  
The next day (or maybe a few days later. they were all running into each other. again, because of the drugs) he said he was well enough to go home. He had Lykaios, except he had already sent her home with pay. His conscious niggled. But he lied to the doctor because he knew his father would be asking and was half out the door when a wide-eyed kid popped up in the hall. Lydos had his hand on his gun. Damen raised one finger, slightly, to stop him.

“I — I have a package,” the kid said. “Jord…Jord said to say he arranged it and it’s safe.”

“We don’t trust anything that comes from the Veretians,” Lydos said. He took the small brown envelope and the kid scarpered. It was like that, when Theomedes was your father. Men near twice your age took the risk for you. At the height of the fighting, someone had put a bomb under one of Kastor’s cars. His mother was meant to be driving it. Retaliation, yes, but the kind of work Akielons did. After that, their family was even more careful. They fought first, so not to be the ones who were attacked unawares.

“It’s a key,” Lydos said, as if Damen could not see it with his own two eyes. “And a note.”

 _i found it_.

The f was looped. The note was not signed. The key to the cuff which had lingered on his wrist for a full day until his wrists itched and Nikandros lost his patience. When they were in high school together, Damen lost his locker keys a lot. They might have stolen bicycles from the spoiled brats who boarded at their fancy school. Nothing but the best for Damen. The point was, they could pick locks. A paperclip and the cuff popped open like a puzzle.

Nik had thrown it in the trash and Damen had not voiced the instinct to keep it. The broken cuff was still among the takeout cartons and bandage wrappings.

“Cancel my car,” Damen said to Lydos. “And get me a courier, a different service to last time.”

“Was that a threat, sir?” Lydos took his job seriously. Damen knew he was rolling through scenarios in his soldiers brain. More security. A show of strength. Inform his father. No-one wanted to be the guard who lost the boss’s son, after all.

“No,” said Damen. “Don’t worry. Let me know when the courier’s here.”

He unpacked the Polaroid and took a picture of the cuff amongst the trash.

I don’t need it he scrawled with a Sharpie on the back.

But others did.

He knew that like he knew his name and the best way to disarm an opponent or make a girl boneless beneath you.

“You’re still here,” Nikandros said. “Good. I don’t think your place is safe.” Damen felt rather a kept woman as Nik loosened his tie. He had a proper job, as well as his work with Damen’s family. His own father had died working for Theomedes and sometimes Damen thought that was the only reason Nikandros stuck around. “Don’t pull that face. I know you have security but they won’t keep your brother out. You won’t keep your brother out, even after he gave you up to the enemy.”

“Laurent wasn’t part of the equation.” He didn’t know who he was defending.

“Anyone in The Veretian cartel would happily take down Auguste’s killer. I hear you got a package.”

“Games,” Damen said.

“He knows where you live then. And yet you are still here.”

“Leave me alone,” Damen said. “I’ve been shot. Again. In case you didn’t notice. I’m going through a major moral crisis. My brother betrayed me. My father is sick.”

Nik rolled his eyes. “Lemme get the violins.”

“I’m thinking …” Damen began.

“Do you need a minute?”

“Shut up. I — You know what it’s like to want to honour your father. I know you do. I love my father and I know I’ve been lucky. We stayed in penthouses during Spring Break, remember? My first car cost more than a lot of first homes. He gave that to me.”

“But—”

“People, Nik. There has to be a line.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, of course you would think that. Day job, straight and narrow etc etc.” Damen wondered if liquor would counteract his antibiotics and painkillers. “I’m going to talk to my father,” he said.

“I'll drive,” Nik said.

~*~

 

  
There might have been people who would plan every last word but Damen wasn’t one of them. He knew his father’s ways and he knew his father valued him. He was buoyed on by the newfound knowledge that there were many more years ahead for him and that his strong, capable father could implement changes. There were protocols to meeting the head of Akielos, even when the boss was your father. They had to make sure he wanted visitors. They had to make sure there was no outstanding warrants or investigations into the visitor. Even when the visitor was his son. Damen knew in his gut no-one was looking for him for the robbery. He was above that, so to speak. But you couldn’t make exceptions and so it was late afternoon by the time he had Pallas drive him to one of his father’s homes.

Inside, there was a moment that made Damen feel like a boy again. His father was looking at him like he was joyful he had ever been born. The look was returned by Damen, who was delighted to see the greyness had gone from his father’s skin and that his breathing was easy. There was an awful lot to be thankful for, when most of your family were alive.

“You’re up and about,” Damen said. “That’s good. How’s the cough?”

“They keep taking my cigars. Sit. You were lucky,” his father said, “That the bullet went clean through.”

“So much for doctor patient confidentiality.”

“What were you thinking, boy? Going there alone. You know they hate you. You know the fight meant extra security.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Damen said.

“Then I’ve not taught you as well as I’d hoped. Damen, you should know your own mind and conduct your own plans.” An admonishment, a criticism. It hurt. Theomedes had always been your typical patriarch. He showed Damen what he wanted from a son, and Damen obeyed without question. Men looked at Theomedes like he was the one who put air in their lungs. How could Damen not obey?

He was thinking about spilling his guts to his father. Damen never kept secrets before. Except…his father was still skinnier than Damen had ever seen him. There were still dark circles under his brown eyes.

Kastor was his son as much as Damen was his son. How could Damen violate that? How could be accuse without proof? His father would surely say Laurent had orchestrated the whole thing and maybe he would be right to say that. Every single day, Damen was learning that people were more complicated than he could fathom.

“You’re right.” Damen smiled. _Get out,_ Jokaste had said. _Make your own plans_ , his father was saying. Maybe they were right. He was the one who decided to follow in his father’s footsteps. No-one had asked that of him. “I’m scouting locations next week for the gym,” he said. “We even got funding for the youth project so I can divert profit over to the new locations.”

“You could have asked me.”

Damen laughed a little and it felt normal. “I think it’s better I do things alone.”

His father was looking at him with a raw look in his eyes. “I didn’t raise you to live in my shadow, Damen.”

“So you wouldn’t be mad?” Part of him would always be the little kid wanting his father’s approval.

“You got yourself shot this week, son. A few years ago, you also got yourself shot and killed the son of our biggest nemesis.” The words were almost fond. “If it wasn’t for the uncle being reasonable, we would’ve been royally fucked. That’s before I add up all your other misdemeanors, my boy. How much damage did you do to the summer house that time? The housekeeper nearly quit.”

“That was because I —”

“Because she had a daughter and a son.”

“Well, I didn’t know they were related when I —”

“And the time of the school wrestling trip. The time you lost your passport in Malta. The time you crashed —”

“Glad to see you are well, father. I must be going.”

“My point is, Damen, that if I forgive you all those things how could you possibly I think I would be mad that you are investing your own money in your own business?”

Damen felt so pleased, he almost forgot about the reason he wanted to break away in the first place.

  
He didn’t go home. He didn’t believe it wasn’t safe but he did believe it would be lonely. He might do something stupid, like get drunk and call Jokaste. Or Kyrina. Or that one cute trainer from the gym who flirted a lot.

In the safety of Nik’s apartment, the only stupid thing he did was accept another anonymous parcel.

“It’s not a bomb,” he said, to a disapproving Atkis.

“You don’t know —”

“I can smell explosives,” he deadpanned and his minder believed him. The package was too light to be dangerous. It was simply a padded envelope and inside was a picture. Not a Polaroid. It looked like old school film.

It was of Laurent, from behind, with his blond hair gleaming under a streetlight. You couldn’t see his face but Damen recognised the outline and the haughty way he held his head.

He recognized his motorcycle, too; the one Laurent was meant to have destroyed. Laurent might have been reminding him that he had very tangible proof of Damen’s role in the robbery. But Damen preferred to think he was taunting him. He did not dwell on what would make Laurent do that.

He just had someone buy a set of training wheels and deliver them to Laurent. Along with the bill for the custom leather jacket the doctor had cut off when Damen was bleeding.  


Retaliation came in the form of another package, addressed to Damen care of Nikandros. You could smell the leather through the layers of tissue and thick brown paper. By now, no-one had much to say about this bizarre exchange of items. As long as it wasn’t a horse’s head in a bed or a bullet with his name in it, Damen wasn’t worried. Besides, it was a pleasant distraction from the reality unfolding around him. He had to move on from the family business if he was going to be able to sleep at night. But he could not do that to the detriment of his father, and even the brother who had betrayed him. There were people who could scheme, but Damen was not one of them. He approached this like a business problem. Strategy was different. He could see how to get the best result with the resources at hand. He knew, currently, the best resource was himself. After all, he’d been raised to take over the company. He knew how to see an issue and how to destroy it.

When to vanquish and when to go around. The older he got the more often the best route was to go around.

Or smash straight through.

Damen ripped open the delicate wrapping, half-knowing what to expect and still completely unsure. It was a leather jacket. Well, he had billed Laurent for his.

It was the ugliest leather jacket in the history of mankind. Clunky. Studded. Patchworked for no reason and, wait, was that fringing?

“Jesus,” Nikandros said, over his shoulder. “That looks like the upholstery in one of Kastor’s titty bars.”

Damen laughed. “I know. It’s vile. What should I send him in return?”

“A request to get your brain back?”

“Hilarious.”

“I was wrong. It’s not your brain he has taken over.”

“Look at these numbers for me and see if my brain is working,” Damen said. Since he could not consult his father as he usually would, he had to rely on his oldest and dearest friend. Nikandros had a head for numbers and a knack for spotting holes Damen would patch over.

“It’s all good, as long as you can get them over in time. Are you sure —”

“I can do it.”

“Are you comfortable with it?”

“Sure,” said Damen. “Just gotta go sell some people to the dude I stole all that money off and I’ll be peachy fucking keen.”  


 

~*~

 

  
Naturally most of the work, if you could call this repugnant act work, was done through intermediaries. A man called Guion, who worth thick gold rings on both pinkie fingers, represented the Regency. Damen represented himself, though to an outsider he would be representing his father’s interests. Theomedes didn’t mind Damen taking the reins; he’d never let his father down before. Kastor was…still a little shocked by Damen keeping the money he’d stolen. Damen never really stood up to his brother before. Nikandros had suggested Damen use the Jokaste thing (as they all called the fact of her cheating with his brother and then sticking around with said brother for family dinners. Really, could she not just have screwed them both and move on?) to keep Kastor at bay. Or just to torment him. But Damen had no skill when it came to manipulation and was better off giving his traitor brother a wide berth until this was over.

That was made easier by the delightful Jokaste finding a bargain, last-minute, five-star vacation and suggesting it to Kastor while holding a new thong bikini. Well, he’d never be mistaken for a genius and by the time he returned, the deal would be done.

“You’re different than your brother,” Guion said, towards the end of their lunch meeting. Damen was distracted. He was slightly sickened by having to endure all the wastefulness and posturing that came with meeting a man like this in a setting like this.

“I get that a lot. We're half-brothers.” He remembered, then, he was meant to be getting this man to do what he wanted. “Must be because I am younger.”

“I’ve several sons. The youngest is not like you.”

“I can’t tell if this is an insult or not.”

“Most younger sons regard everything as an insult. My boy would pout and wilt if he had to real work like this,” Guion said. “I can tell you’re direct, no bullshit, and I appreciate that.”

“How was Kastor?”

Guion deliberated this while he swilled the last of his red wine. “Shifty.”

“Jumpy, maybe. How many times have you shot at us?”

“We’re civilised, unlike your people,” Guion said. “How many times have you pillaged and raided our territory?”

“Enough that I have the upper hand here,” Damen said. “The boy is about to come of age, isn’t he? Like a prince due to get the crown. I’m sure that’s causing some anxiety among your shareholders?”

“We’ve weathered worse.”

“Ah. Well, I must’ve wrongly assumed that’s why you got the shipment of benzos from Vask last week. Tell me,will they give you much more on credit if they think the boy will run you into the ground? I hear he’s very idealistic. He might stop that side of things completely.”

Guion snorted. “He’s the habits of a lout. I think we’ll be all right. Besides, who knows what the future holds? Leadership in name only is a possibility.”

“Or not at all,” Damen ventured. Guesswork. Whatever agreement had been formed between Kastor and Laurent’s uncle, it had to hold some mutual benefit. Kastor wanted control. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume the uncle did too. And what might have wangled off Kastor. “As you might now, things are changing in my family. Perhaps in the future the Veretian company might find they need our help. We have a sideline in pest control.”

“You would help us?”

“We would be paid.” Damen smiled, a little. “At the time of our choosing. We’ve done quite well out of eliminating the last heir.”

“My boss doesn’t trust you.”

“I could provide a show of good faith,” Damen said. “Times are about to get hectic for you. Cash flow could be an issue.”

“And you could provide a high interest loan? Don’t make me laugh,” Guion blustered.

“No. We have something better,” Damen said. “Free labour.”

Word came from the top the next day. The Regency would accept their gracious gift of fifty trained — fifty human beings. Damen would make things better. Soon.

The money from the robbery didn’t go on new premises, though Damen did take out a new lease using his own savings. It went on a block of small block of apartments to be used for social housing and more of his savings went to a charity that would offer counseling and education, after.

After, when he could deal with the personal consequences of burying his head in the sand for so long. When he could sleep at night again. When he could stop by one of Kastor’s clubs to collect the takings in his absence and not want to offer his coat to every last one of the dancers. Those girls were there by their own free will, or whatever version of free will existed to people with limited choices and opportunities.

It was good to change and to try, he knew that.

But it was better to start in the good place.

And worse to never try get there.

The ugly jacket was the last thing he’d received from Laurent and Damen knew not to check his mailbox like a lonely kid checking for classroom Valentines. His next move was in the works and Laurent wasn’t the type to strike without incentive. Whatever happened, Damen could take comfort in providing an incentive.

Or rather an invitation.

Laurent was the type to make a man wait so Damen wasn’t surprised when, several weeks after their first meeting, it was well past nine and he was still alone. Laurent might not show. If that happened, well, Damen would enjoy his own show.

He didn’t turn when he heard the steps.

“I am not exactly sure,” Laurent said, in the cool familiar voice. “If this isn’t the stupidest thing I have ever done. And I once saved the life of man I once swore to  
kill.”

“The vow was the stupid part,” Damen replied. “Coming here was…” He didn’t quite know how to finish that. To have made this decision wasn’t exactly clever of Damen. To wait, alone, for a man who had ample reason to put a bullet in the back of his head before he could turn around was, well, a little bit reckless.

“I’ll call it a gamble,” Laurent supplied. “Or an insult. Or a sad summation of my night alongside a healthy estimation on your part of what I would be doing at this moment. Have you someone watching me? Or is that too gauche for you?” He came to a stop a few feet away from Damen, an inch away from the concrete wall, under the lone light that failed to brighten the top floor of this empty parking garage. “It’s not very flattering for me.”

“The fluorescent lighting?” Damen didn’t mean that. It was all over his face that he thought Laurent looked good in any light.

“I turn twenty three today,” Laurent said. “It’s the eve of my ascension, so to speak. Tomorrow I officially inherit all my father and brother worked to achieve. My dead father and brother,” he added, helpfully but without the expected sting. Damen read somewhere once that daddy long legs were poisonous but they didn’t have teeth to bite.

“I know,” he said.

“Yes, you were there when my brother died.”

“I know it’s your birthday,” Damen said. “I have something for you.”

“Where?” Laurent looked around. The roof was deserted. Across the street was the sprawling, garish Veretian Resort and Casino. It dominated the skyline in a  
sickening display of ostentatious red glass, red lights and ugly towers. This close it was nothing, really; the way a single drop of blood is nothing when you’re wounded. “If you say in your pocket…I’ve got one too.”

“Really?” Damen couldn’t resist the look that showed his dimple. "Is it loaded this time?"

“Oh, God. Yes. Here’s my gun. You don’t like them. I’m not stupid.” He took a step closer to the ledge. “I could fall,” he said.

“Not until after the show.” A glance at his phone told him it was nearly time. No need to leave it behind now. No need to pretend he was not here. “Firstly, though. I want to tell you I’ve taken this building.”

“Taken? My dear, you know this isn’t a war game.”

“Taken the lease.” Damen spoke with barely concealed annoyance. “I’m branching out. I can’t…I want to make my own mark. It doesn’t exactly match the mark my family have made.”

“I see. Well, I can live with that I suppose. It’s unlikely I’ll ever get my uncle to step away from the hotel. It means too much to him, what he has there.” Laurent peered over the edge again. The wind was sharp. “I’m irresponsible, reckless, immoral and too busy chasing vices to take control of such a large corporation. Hadn’t you realised?”

“You’re here. You stole that money from under their noses.”

“You still owe me, by the way.”

“See if you say the same in an hour,” Damen replied.

“Whatever. I’m talking to the man who killed my brother,” Laurent says. “That’s not very loyal. My uncle’s already done such a good job showing the board of  
directors that I’m not to be trusted. This is the icing on the cake.”

“Maudlin,” said Damen. “I guess you don’t want to hear my business plans then.”

“Let me guess? It involves grease and overly muscled bros and some highly unethical labour sources.”

“No. Not exactly. Or not in the way you’re thinking,” Damen said. “I’ve got some gyms.”

“You’ve got a mini-empire in the making, I do my research,” Laurent replied. “What did that Goopy news feature call it? The epitome of clean, classic luxury? A safe  
space for new mothers and hardcore lifters alike.”

“Do you follow us on Instagram too?” Damen was smiling. Laurent flushed. “I’m taking that here,” he continued. “With a stronger emphasis on leisure. A spa. Bathhouses.”

Laurent’s lips curled slightly. “With bathboys?”

“No…no, not like that. God. Like…places to soak and lounge and…rejuvenate. Think Ancient Greece or, um, Bath? In England? It’s really pretty there.. Don’t think bowls of condoms and free lube. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that but I’m going straight. Well, not straight but…”

Laurent laughed. The sound was a bright surprise “I’m familiar with the concept.”

“Firsthand?”

“I’ve been to the UK. I’ve never been straight. Have I put you out of your misery?”

“Mostly,” said Damen. “We’ll be competitors, once I open.”

A single brow arched. “We’ll see.”

“I am definitely competition for you.”

“If you open. If my uncle’s men don’t object at every stage of planning. If I ever get control of the business.”

“I’ll definitely open,” Damen said. “But you’re right, we won’t be competitors. My demographic is more refined than the Regency.”

“Than my uncle’s version,” Laurent said. “There’d be no fight nights and trash parties when I’m at the helm.”

“And I thought you said, if.” Damen looked at his phone again and then saw the first flash of a blue light, eerie in the red glow. “Look down,” he said.

The cops came first. For once, Damen didn’t feel the urge to run. For once, he had done the right thing. They weren’t the only officials about to raid. Soon behind was Inland Revenue, Criminal Assets Recovery, Immigration and most importantly Social Services, all in official cars and official jackets. His whole life, distrust of public bodies had been ingrained into Damen and he could tell by the way Laurent stiffened that he had been, too. When Auguste died, neither family had co-operated with the police. Three times in his life, Damen had been shot and he’d never been in an emergency room.

“And I was expecting fireworks.”

“This is better,” said Damen.

“I wasn’t letting myself think of the rumours I heard that there was an exchange of people between you and my uncle,” Laurent said. “It was all going to shit anyway. And now we are both in the dunghill. It won’t even be fun to destroy you. Will there be anything left once your family know what you have done?”

“What have I done,then?”

They were watching the officials stream into the hotel. Sometimes, a badge and a gun was powerful. Sometimes, when you were prone to corruption and bribes, the most powerful thing was the taxman. Revenue were the ones who could seize your assets, freeze your accounts and audit why they hell you had dorms full of ‘staff’ who weren’t paying taxes because they weren’t getting any damn wages. It might be scary for the people who’d been treated like goods, when the raid happened, but it would be worth it in the long term. With Nikandros’s help, and the goodwill afforded to Damen by his natural charm and favours he was owed, there was help for those who needed. A future where they could, at the very least, belong to themselves.

“You’re a rat,” Laurent said.

“Oh, no,” said Damen. “It’s not snitching when you’ve got a plan. Or when you do it to the right people.”

“What happened to honour among thieves?”

The hotel across the road became chaotic. Laurent’s phone was buzzing non-stop but he made no move to answer. But you could see the curiosity piqued in his  
eyes and the blank face used to hide a tornado of thoughts blowing through his mind. You could see, also, curious guests and ineffectual private security and the sad people shuffling outside into the waiting arms of the good people Damen had made sure were there to greet them.

“Honour? You tried to steal my takings.”

“Everyone knows I’m a lost cause.”

Damen said, “It’s not something I ever saw myself doing, I grant you that. But there was no other way to help them. I had them given to your uncle so this could happen, but yes also to avoid my father being implicated. Nor is this anything I learned at my father’s feet. There are codes and honour, yes, when you live like we have lived since boys but…” It was time to voice the thoughts that had been building for a while now. _Get out_. “I want to be better. They are people. They have been treated so badly, so inhumanely, because of the actions of our families. Because of our greed and my ignorance. I don’t know how to fix that. I had to make it so that the right people could.”

Laurent was quiet, digesting.

Then he said, “You could have tipped someone off anonymously.”

“Believe me, I did not put my name to this.”

“Day —” He was going to say his name, in a small voice and an indulgent tone. He stopped himself. You could see from here, even, that some of the people below  
were crying. Some of them were barely pubescent. Damen did not push it, when Laurent changed tack and tone. “You know what I mean.”

“I might have done that. A tip off. A slow escape. Etc etc. But…”

“But —”

“A fell swoop is better,” Damen said. “I owed you a gift, as I recall. Look down, there it is.”

It was Laurent’s uncle under the blue lights below. The man who had collaborated with Kastor to set Damen up. Who had done his best to steal from his own  
nephew. Whose men had shot Damen. Who kept people as slaves.

And he was in handcuffs, in front of his paid staff and his guests and the people he tried to own, and he was being shoved roughly into the back of a squad car.

Laurent sucked in a sharp breath.

“He’s my only family,” he said.

“I heard you talking that day,” Damen said. “You don’t do to family what he’s done to you.”

“No.” There was a note, off-key, in Laurent’s clear voice. “He’s got the best lawyers.”

“He’s got slaves in his business and nothing but bad press. He won’t get off. He won’t have the money to pay lawyers and if he did, the board won’t take him back anyway. They don’t care about him.”

“You know that, do you?”

“They want money. They like what he gives them. You can do better.”

“I — I have so much to do,” Laurent said. “I can’t afford to waste time with games.”

“This isn’t a game to me. Jesus. What do I have to do?”

“Unkill my brother.”

Damen flinched.

“Go deal with your little kingdom across the road then,” he said.

“Oh, I will. And remember, when you’re patting yourself on the back that you don’t have any entitlement to me because you chose to do one semi-decent thing.”

Below, the lights were still flashing blue. The Regency lights were still glowing red. Damen was thinking of his father and how he was going to react. Akielos and Vere had been rivals for generations. Perhaps Damen hadn’t done the right thing. He had just given them a major advantage. With the uncle in charge, there’d been some peaceful co-existence. Violence was limited to street level skirmishes. If this worked out, and Laurent took charge, they would be very powerful adversaries indeed.

Damen faced Laurent down. “We both chose this. Dress it up any way you like but I am telling the truth. We were both down in that alley that morning. You gave me the gun. I pulled the trigger. Climb down off your high horse and —”

“But your family are alive. Your goddamn Teflon family get away with this again and again and again. I lost. Even when I win, I lose,” Laurent said. “You can’t bring my brother back.”

“No,” said Damen. There was a phantom burn in his shoulder. “I can’t. His bullet went into my shoulder. They didn't remove it. Too risky. I got his —”

“Neck,” said Laurent. “They say it’s quick, when you get an artery.”

“We both knew it could happen. Your side ambushed during a meeting! It was awful and it happened because you were born to one father and I was born to another. And neither of our families knew how to give us a different life but the one in our blood,” Damen said. His breaths were shallow. “We kept choosing it. I choose to be different now. What about you?”

Laurent said nothing.

For a long time, he said nothing.

“I —” He said that, then stopped. He breathed in and out three times. “I did have something planned for tonight. You overturned that but I have decided that the best course of action is to proceed, once I’ve put the fires out and made the board see I at least care about the future of the company. I’ll have to make a statement and check on the welfare of the … undocumented people. I’ll have to see if we have enough staff and check in with the general manager and then fire the general manager and give Vannes the job she deservers. Then…you can join me.”

“Where?”

“In the spirit of circularity,” Laurent replied. “Be waiting in the alley where we first met at midnight. Don’t be late.”

Damen was left there, blinking

~*~

 

  
Midnight came and Damen waited in that same shadowy spot he had first encountered Laurent. He’d been a different person, then. Tonight he considered that this could well be a trap. A sick game. Who knew? But he was here with his eyes open. That was important. Still, he wasn’t surprised when Laurent kept him waiting. He scrolled through his phone, checking out the Premier League scores. Hey, just because he was getting out of his father’s game didn’t mean he couldn’t place a bet here and there. It was good to know bookies.

Eventually, when Damen was just starting to shuffle to keep warm, the fire door opened.

It was Laurent, and he was a different person too. He was talking into a phone and clicking off things on an iPad. He glanced at Damen, ushered him inside and  
bid him wait while he finished his call. The novelty amused Damen and he let that show on his face.

“Something funny?”

“I don’t normally wait around like this.”

“Humility is a virtue,” Laurent said.

“I thought that was patience.”

“It’s both,” said Laurent. “I have both in abundance. You are learning. This way. I’ve got the key.”

Damen followed him, still smiling. “I’m not sure declaring to have anything in abundance goes hand in hand in with humility.”

“And I thought you were sure of everything.” He was tapping on the iPad as he led Damen towards the elevator. “Just on question, before I shut these both off.  
What non-profit did you contact? Don’t tell me you left this solely in the hands of public services?”

“No. I can’t donate to public services,” Damen replied.

“You could always pay taxes.”

“Hey! I do. Now.” Damen shook his head. The elevator dinged its arrival to the basement. He named the housing charity and the local chapter of a human rights organisation that were on standby, along with social services, for after the raid. It had made the news by now. They called it a rescue. “I didn’t know if that was right but Nikandros asked his boss and —”

“He asked Theomedes?” Laurent’s brows shot up to his hairline.

“No. He works for Revenue. Specifcally in the Asset Recovery department.” Damen was polite. He let Laurent step into the elevator first. It only had one button, so  
he pressed it.

“Seriously? I thought he was your accountant.”

“A man of many talents.”

“You have someone on the inside?”

“No. I pay tax. We all do. Nik takes his work seriously. If he was just a mole, you would have been torn apart years ago.”

“Whatever.” Laurent was tapping on the phone now. “I just need to tell Vannes to get in touch with her contact at the RCC and I’m done.”

“What’s the RCC?”

“Seriously? It’s the Rape Crisis Centre.”

“Why — oh.” Right.

“How likely do you think that people were owned by other people and escaped unscathed in that sense?” Laurent asked.

“Not while —”

“Not while they were with you, personally. Or perhaps with your father or your friend. But outside of that, you don’t know what people are capable of. I know what my uncle is capable of. It’s necessary,” Laurent said, like closing the final page of a book. Damen knew better than to ask for more details. Laurent was powering off his phone then. His lips were full because he was blowing one long breath out of his lungs. “Aren’t you going to ask me where we’re going?”

“This elevator only goes one way,” Damen replied. “And since that way is up, not down, I guess we’re going to the top.”

“Ah, you are observant.” Another ding and a smooth stop. “Welcome to the penthouse,” Laurent said. “We’re even now, I believe.”

Damen followed the precise footsteps over shiny hardwood and then carpet that felt quick-sand thick. There were, naturally, floor to ceiling windows and that is where Laurent came to a stop. You could see the whole city, streetlights and then rolling darkness. You could see the parking garage and what would be Damen’s new business.

“Remind me to install privacy glass across the road,” Damen said. “Are you trying to outdo me? This is considerably more impressive than a carpark.”

“Well, duh,” said Laurent. “And no, I am not trying to compete. This has been…long-planned. I just decided to invite you along. Champagne?”

“Sure,” said Damen, whose mouth was dry. Also, he never turned down Veuve.

“It’s on ice. I’ll have a small glass.”

So Damen was playing the role of servant, then. He didn’t mind. He didn’t mind any of this. The decor was a little ostentatious for his taste, the wood carving too ornate and the bedding too silky. But he could appreciate the sense of opulence, the expansive view and this new version of Laurent who didn’t walk with a sting in his tail.

“Have a look at the room service menu, too,” Laurent said. “I’m starving.”

Cute. It was almost like…

“I need a burger,” Damen said. “Two burgers. Fries. A milkshake. Maybe some onion rings.”

“I’m getting lobster. That was planned, too.”

Damen popped the champagne and poured two glasses, no overflow. This wasn’t his first rodeo. It wasn’t time to sit yet, so he rejoined Laurent at the window.

“Cheers,” he said, and tapped his glass against Laurent’s. “No. No. That’s not good enough. You have to look me in the eye or..”

“Or else what?”

“Seven years bad sex.”

“Hmm. Well, it couldn’t get any worse,” Laurent replied. But he looked Damen down with those pellucid blue eyes and Damen felt like he was what was  
transparent. “Cheers,” he said, and the crystal glasses clinked. It reverberated right into Damen’s bones. His voice was behind his thoughts and he had to make it catch up.

“A toast to your birthday,” he said.

“Go on. Tell me all my good points. That's what happens when one is toasted, right?"

“Show me them,” Damen replied. “Or tell me about these plans.”

Patient in a way that usually only came when he was working or working out, Damen took a seat in a soft brocade sofa while Laurent ordered the promised room service.

“I’m in charge now,” he said, and that sent a tingle down Damen’s spine that was new and not unpleasant. “So I’m availing of the minbar. You may have one item.”

“How generous.” Damen ripped into some eight buck Pringles while Laurent nibbled some chocolate. A sweet tooth. Interesting. Stalling rather than answer  
Damen’s simple question. That was telling, too. “Are they poisoned? Is that the plan?”

“As if I would do that on my home turf,” Laurent replied. “No, this has been planned since before I knew your name. It just took a little bit longer for me to get here. So…my brother, yes, that uncomfortable topic of the brother you shot. It’s going to come up if we —”

“Yes?”

“Eat your Pringles.” Laurent pulled his knee up to his chest. “Auguste was…” The sentence faded away and Laurent replaced words with a deep breath that made him look like he’d been in the world for ever. “He was my big brother.”

“Kastor is my older brother,” Damen said. “I know it’s different.”

“Not only that,” Laurent continued. “He was the best son anyone could hope for. The Golden Boy who fulfilled my father’s wishes and still maintained a perfect GPA. He was an expert marksman, blackbelt, strategist and made everyone he looked at feel about ten feet tall. That was his strength — people. My father could see it. He could lead like you wouldn’t imagine. Actually, maybe, you could. I can’t. If we lived in another time, he’d be the heir and I’d be the spare. But alas, this is the twenty first century and my mother would never have allowed it. Jury’s out on my father. Auguste was going to get everything and I was…going to college. I did, you know? I’ve an MBA, though my uncle found ways to rubbish it.”

“Impressive.”

“I know. He said I should’ve gotten some experience then gone for the Executive option.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh.”

“You should be proud.”

“I should,” Laurent said. “Anyway, Auguste was going to be in charge. He was clever, don’t get me wrong, and capable but I was…am…I had something he thought would benefit the business.”

“Intelligence,” Damen supplied. It was strange to him how Laurent, who carried himself with exasperating confidence, was so unwilling to compliment himself or receive one.

“Something,” Laurent said. “I was going to do the books. Finance. Investments. This has long been our flagship and our, well, you know what we do.”

“You launder through the hotel.”

“And the laundry,” Laurent said. “It appealed to my mother’s sense of humour, that one.”

Damen leaned forward, an elbow on each knee and his hands clasped together. “Where does lobster and champagne come into this?”

“Well, when we first came up with the plan it was ice-cream sundaes and champagne,” Laurent replied. There was a faraway look on his face. “I was ten. My palate was only so sophisticated and I didn’t like getting my hands dirty. Auguste said, that when I was old enough, he would commandeer the penthouse and we would live like kings for a night. My cheap ass uncle never updated the reservation system, so the booking still stood all these years later.”

The smile on Damen’s face was faint as a ghost. Laurent, who couldn’t accept a compliment, could have invited Damen here as some act of self-harm. Damen remembered the hatred of the basement and the horror in the pretty blues when he’d been recognised. He remembered the searing pain and the warm blood and he could no longer assume that people were like him — trusting and mostly uncomplicated. Jokaste. Kastor. The world wasn’t how he wanted it to be.

“What would he think of this?” Damen was vague and so was the hand gesture. He was referring to himself but left Laurent the option of interpreting it differently.

The decor. The coup. Whatever.

Laurent held Damen’s gaze. “He’d want me to be happy.

There was finality in the way he got to his feet and a natural self-assuredness that Damen had not seen before. Damen felt near-naked under his gaze and even while some sensible part of him screamed that this could still be a game, that Laurent could pull a gun from behind his back and shoot his brother’s killer in the head, that he might feel he had to in order to gain real respect in his organisation. Damen disregarded all of that.

He wanted this reality, where they were in a fancy hotel room and they had won the battle and the champagne bubbled on his tongue.

“You’re staring,” Damen said. Laurent was looking at him like someone might look at a picture in a gallery. Or how Nikandros looked at Japanese sports cars.

“You don’t mind, do you?” It wasn’t even phrased like a question. More like a prickling.

Damen didn’t mind. Unconsciously, under the heat of the blue eyes, he had adjusted his position on the low, lush chair. His skin was warm and so was the gaze he returned.

“Not yet,” Damen replied.

“When do you start to mind? Me, it’s when they scroll up and down. Women are bad but men…they think they their dick is the only dick in the world and it should be obeyed. Is it different for you? I hear you get around. Alley cats don’t mind being looked at.”

“Did you just call me a …”

“Slut? Should it?”

“I mind,” Damen said. “When I stop being a person. I mind when it’s not something shared.”

Laurent cocked his head slightly. “And now?”

Damen could answer. He could engage in these verbal back and forths for as long as Laurent could. Words were easier. Talk is cheap, his father always said. So Damen stretched out one hand and placed it on Laurent’s sharp hipbone. His thumb slipped into the loops of Laurent’s trousers, brushing the buttery leather of the narrow belt. He did not tug him forward as he might have, as he would have done with any other, but simply waited with the warmth of Laurent’s skin seeping into his.

“It’s shared,” Damen said. He knew that by the invisible ribbons tightening between them and the weight of the air. He knew the butterflies in his stomach and the flip of his heart. The concentration of blood and skins need to be touched.

“Confident, aren’t we?”

“You’re not pulling away.”

“Is that the only indication you need?”

Damen waited. Laurent looked down, lips parted, and did not move. Damen began to remove his hand, still dreaming of all the other places he wanted to touch. Laurent caught it, quick as a cat. Their fingers tangled. Bravery took hold of Damen and he tugged Laurent towards him so he stood, half bent, between his knees.

Laurent was looking down at him.

“Kiss me,” Damen said.

“Say please.”

Damen was laughing then, and he angled his whole body upwards and kissed Laurent enthusiastically on the lips. It was lighter than he ever imagined, in these last moments, or since the fraught moments of their first meeting. The way Laurent responded was different, too; like he was barely tethered to the floor. His hands came down on Damen’s shoulders, like a kid at a middle school dance, and Damen was enjoying the way his own hands wrapped easily around Laurent’s trim waist.

“Please,” Damen said, after a few seconds of delight in the way Laurent kissed back.

“Please continued? Oh, all right.” And Laurent climbed neatly onto his lap. Now, they’re eyes were level. Now, Laurent wound his arms around Damen’s neck. They were close enough to share breath, bump noses, but Laurent had yet to kiss him again. “I don’t —”

“We don’t have to do anything you —”

“Spare me,” Laurent said. “But thanks for saying that, actually. No, I meant that I don’t do this often. Ever.”

“You’re not like other girls?” Damen was teasing, and Laurent smiled a little.

“This part isn’t a game.”

“No,” said Damen. “Was it ever?”

“I like games.” He swallowed, the effort obvious on his throat, and Damen wondered if it was intentional. Laurent could be baiting him, or he could be tense too. “Did you like the jacket?”

“Oh, yes,” said Damen. “I wore it to the sign the lease across the road.I;ve ordered more for this years's family holiday card.”

That raised a smile and that was enough for Damen to need those full lips against his again. You never would have known, by the way he held himself before, that they were anything but taut and severe. Laurent recieved the kiss, and that too was enough to make Damen need more. He still half-thought he’d be kicked out or, well, just plain kicked at any moment. Laurent’s hadns were gentle as they drifted across Damen’s chest.

“Is it painful?” he asked, between kisses. When had Damen last acted like this, felt like this, kissing for the joy of kissing? He would have been a kid, then, making out with some pretty girl behind the school cafeteria. He had to take Laurent’s bottom lip between his before he answered. He had to hold on this.

“It’s fine,” he said. “A flesh wound. I’ve had worse.”

“And--” Laurent's elegant fingers were on an older wound, now a scar, that was just some bumpy flesh and beneath it the bullet from his brother's gun. Auguste  
would have loaded that gun. The bullets were likely the last thing Auguste had touched.

“I always know it's there.” Damen's breathing was as careful as Laurent's touch. Here was the thread that bound them togother, and it was made of scar tissue and violence.

Damen wished he could wipe it all away but not even the kisses he so desperately wanted to give would do that.

Nothing could.

“But —”

“Yes?”

Laurent let out a low breath. “How do you get through airport security?”

The curse was broken.

“The same way I do everything else in life, sweetheart,” Damen replied. “With an abundance of charm and luck. And some minor delays.” Once he was sure Laurent's eyes were brighter, Damen resumed kissing those full lips.

“I didn’t want to get you treatment. I only got the doctor because I couldn’t afford a feud with your family as well as my own.” Laurent wasn't finished.

“I don’t care.”

“But —”

Damen pressed his forehead against Laurent’s. “That’s over. It’s over. We’re here now. I hurt you, too. I hurt you badly and I can’t ever take it back. I can’t change it or fix it and wishes and sorries don’t mean anything. I know that. You know that.”

“I know that,” Laurent echoed. Something passed between them that made Damen think of a forge and the heat that shaped metal. He kissed him again, and again, and stopped only when knocking on the door brought him back to breathless reality. “Come in,” Laurent called, without moving from his current position. Damen, too shocked to process this, only really saw the benefit of Laurent’s choice when he became aware of just how disheveled and … obviously into this he had become. They both had become. So he stayed in place, faking indifference, while a uniformed staff member whose professionalism was pushed to is limits, wheeled in a room service cart.

“Can I get you anything else, sir? Um, sirs,” said a young man with the name tag that read Pallas. Damen cringed, internally. He trusted Pallas. He'd placed him here as their inside man.

Damen had not forseen this possibility.

“That’s all for now. The breakfast order and your tip are on the side,” Laurent said. Pallas managed a thank you, and weirdly a bow, before he left. “Have him pulled out by the end of the shift or he’s not going to like the consequences.”

“Right.” Damen was dazed. His mouth was watering at the aroma of the food. His arms were missing holding Laurent, who now fluidly slipped from his lap and  
focused on the food. “You knew?”

“I know everything. So where shall we eat? Table or bed?”

Eating in bed with Laurent seemed the height of indulgence. But Damen was, well, Damen and his body told him what it wanted.

“There are other things we can do in bed,” he said.

“Oh, Christ. You’ll have to try harder than that.” Laurent pushed the cart in the direction of the big, opulent bed. “Don’t pout. We need food. Sustenance. The night is long ahead of us.”

Damen followed, as if tied with a string. “The morning, too,” he said.

“Yes,” said Laurent. “The morning. And everything that comes after that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, guys! as always i appreciate your comments more than i can say and would love to know what you think of this.
> 
> (PS the title is from Kiss with a Fist by Florence and the Machine)
> 
> here is what happens next : http://ruby--wednesday.tumblr.com/post/166199448740/break-the-lock-what-happens-next

**Author's Note:**

> hey! thanks for reading. idek where this came from but here we are. there is just one more part, and i will post it in a couple of days.


End file.
